MICHAEL 
FORTH 


by 

MARY  JOHNSTON 

' 

AUTHOR  OF 

"TO  HAVE  AND  TO  HOLD"  "AUDREY"  LEWIS  RAND" 
"SIR  MORTIMER"  "FOES" 


Harper  &  Brothers  Publishers 
New  York  and  London 


BOOKS  BY 
MARY  JOHNSTON 

MICHAEL  FORTH 

FOES 

SIR  MORTIMER 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW   YORK 
[ESTABLISHED  1817] 


MICHAEL  FORTS 

Copyright;  1919  by  Mary  Johnston 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


MICHAEL    FORTH 


m 


MICHAEL    FORTH 


CHAPTER   I 

WAS  born  at  Restwell,  two  miles  from  the  small 

town  of  Whitechurch,  in  the  county  of  

in  Virginia.  The  night  of  my  birth,  by  going  to 
the  top  of  Lone  Tree  Hill  behind  Restwell,  one 
might  see  the  smoke  and  flare  of  a  dying  battle 
and  hear  in  diminuendo  the  guns  of  North  and 
South.  I  know  this  because  Daddy  Guinea  went 
up  there  and  heard  and  saw  and  told  me  about  it 
when  I  was  six  years  old  and  sitting  with  him  in  his 
cabin  over  the  fire. 

"'Fo'  de  Lawd,  dat's  so!"  said  Daddy  Guinea. 
"De  tree  shivered  an'  Guinea  shivered.  De  sky 
low  down  wuz  on  fire  lak  you  burnin'  breshwood, 
an'  de  guns  holler  hoarser  'n  bullfrogs !  Dey  soun' 
jes'  lak  de  folks  in  hell  buttin'  dey  haids  togedder. 
'N'  yo'  father  was  dere  an'  yo'  grandfather  an'  yo' 
uncle  Gilchrist  an'  mo'  ob  yo'  cousins  dan  you 
could  shake  er  stick  at!  An'  er  passel  ob  other 
folk.  An'  de  folk  on  de  other  side— -de  Yanks.  An' 
de  light  flicker  lak  breshwood  burnin',  an'  de  guns 
holler  lak  bullfrogs  in  hell,  whar  dere  ain't  no  water! 
An'  de  tree  shiver  an'  Guinea  shiver." 

"Did  I  shiver,  Daddy  Guinea?" 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

''I  don'  know  'bout  de  shiverin',  but  I  sho  know 
dat  you  hollered!  I  come  down  from  Lone  Tree 
Hill,  an*  de  big  house  wuz  lighted  up,  an*  I  heard 
you  hollerin*  befo*  I  got  to  de  kitchen  door." 

"What  was  I  crying  about?" 

Daddy  Guinea  scraped  the  sweet-potatoes  that 
we  were  roasting  out  of  the  ashes.  "Dat's  er  ques 
tion  with  er  powerful  lot  ob  joints !  Dar  now !  De 
ashes  off  de  little,  long  'tater,  jes'  lak  you  laks  hit!" 

My  father,  my  grandfather,  and  Uncle  Gilchrist 
came  safely  from  the  battle  visible  from  Lone  Tree 
Hill.  But  three  months  later  in  a  skirmish  a  hun 
dred  miles  from  Restwell  my  father  was  killed.  So 
I  do  not  remember  him.  A  daguerreotype  and  a 
photograph — carte  de  visile — show  a  strong,  irregular 
face.  He  was  twenty-six  when  he  died,  and  I  was 
his  only  child.  I  was  born  and  he  was  killed  in  the 
second  year  of  the  war.  I  was  three  years  old  when 
came  the  Surrender.  At  present  my  native  region 
found  itself  midseas  in  that  long  and  trying  episode 
called  Reconstruction.  South  of  Mason  and  Dixon 
at  this  moment  in  history  it  was  called  Domination. 
War,  Surrender,  Reconstruction,  or  Domination — 
they  were  but  words  to  a  six-year-old,  yet  words 
with  something  mystic,  awful,  wrapped  around  them. 
He  could  not  but  feel  that,  watching  the  faces  of  the 
grown-ups  who  spoke  them. 

Daddy  Guinea  was  old  and  bent  and  charcoal 
black  and  seamed.  He  had  been  born  at  Restwell, 
but  his  father  and  mother  were  born  in  Africa.  He 
was  one  of  the  handful  of  men  and  women,  slaves 
once  but  now  free,  who  stayed  on  at  Restwell  after 
the  war.  He  was  free,  but  made  no  great  fuss  over 

2 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

it,  took  his  wage  in  kyid  and  in  the  very  few  dollars 
my  grandfather  could  give  him,  and  once  told  me, 
"I  wuz  all  de  time  free  in  er  place  inside!'* 

Now,  sitting  in  the  cabin  that  was  dark  save  for 
the  hearth-fire,  waiting  for  the  sweet-potato,  watch 
ing  Daddy  Guinea's  manipulations,  all  of  a  sudden 
he  linked  and  brought  together  for  me  the  feel  of  all 
the  negro  folk  that  I  knew  intimately  or  had  casually 
viewed.  He  was  like  them  and  not  like  them,  as  all 
the  others  were  like  one  another  and  yet  had  their 
differences,  so  that  I  never  mistook  Uncle  Plutus 
for  Mandy's  Jim,  nor  Mandy  for  Aunt  Esther,  nor 
Mammy  for  either  of  these,  nor  one  of  the  children 
with  whom  I  played  for  another.  Daddy  Guinea, 
now  bending,  now  rising,  from  the  fire,  was  certainly 
Daddy  Guinea.  Yet,  like  the  giant  shadow  upon 
the  wall  and  ceiling,  there  was  something  around 
that  was  holding  Daddy  Guinea  and  Uncle  Plutus, 
Mandy's  Jim  and  Mandy  and  Aunt  Esther  and  all 
the  others.  I  don't  suppose  in  the  least  that  sitting 
there,  a  small  boy  roasting  sweet-potatoes,  I  con 
sciously  entertained  an  idea  of  race  or  accomplished 
a  considerable  synthesis.  Yet  I  did,  with  a  sudden 
sense  of  wideness,  of  novelty,  open  into  a  perception, 
not  of  Daddy  Guinea  or  Mammy  or  Uncle  Plutus 
or  Esther,  but  of  colored  people.  I  was  due  to  meet 
often  in  life,  am  due  still  to  meet  often,  that  sense 
of  generalization.  It  came  then,  as  it  comes  now, 
with  the  breath  of  space,  with  a  dawnlike,  happy 
surprise. 

I  sat  staring  into  the  embers.  "Don*  you  lak 
yo'  sweet  -  potato?"  asked  Daddy  Guinea.  "Eat 
hit!" 

3 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

When  it  was  eaten  he  took  me  home  to  the  big 
house.  Outside  the  cabin  was  darkness  and  stars, 
the  sound  of  the  river  and  wind  in  the  oaks.  Also 
a  whippoorwill  was  crying :  ' '  Whip-poor-will !  Whip- 
poor-will!"  I  pressed  close  to  Daddy  Guinea. 

Mammy  waited  for  me  in  the  kitchen  door. 
"Never  wuz  such  a  chile  for  gallivantin'  off  to 
cabins!  Come  in  an'  say  yo'  prayers  an*  'celerate 
yo'self  into  bed!" 

I  always  said  my  prayers  kneeling  beside  my 
mother.  Now  I  said  them  and  climbed  into  my  bed 
and  she  kissed  me  good  night.  She  went  out  of 
the  room,  and  Mammy,  who  had  a  bed  in  the  corner, 
sat  at  a  table  by  the  lamp  and  hemmed  a  great 
white  neckerchief.  It  was  a  warm  night.  Moths 
came  in  at  the  windows  and  flew  around  the  light. 
Mammy's  shadow  moved  on  the  wall.  Her  head 
nodded,  up  and  down  went  her  arm.  I  lay  upon 
my  side  and  watched  the  shadow.  The  room  was 
large  and  square  and  the  whippoorwilTs  voice,  no  less 
than  the  moths,  came  in  at  the  window.  I  grew 
lonely,  and  to  brighten  matters  sat  up  and  demanded 
a  drink  of  water.  Mammy  brought  it  to  me  in  my 
silver  mug  and  told  me  to  go  to  sleep.  I  held  her  by 
her  ample  apron. 

"  Daddy  Guinea  saw  them  fighting  from  Lone 
Tree  Hill.  Did  you  see  them,  Mammy?" 

Mammy  looked  down  at  me,  and  with  a  large, 
brown  hand  pushed  the  hair  from  my  forehead. 
"You  go  to  sleep,  honey!  Yo'  haid's  as  damp  as  a 
dish-rag!  It's  a  hot  night.  You  go  to  sleep!" 

"Did  you  see  them?" 

"No!  Where'd  I  fin'  time  to  go  up  to  Lone  Tree 

4 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

Hill  ?  First  I  wuz  wukkin'  with  yo'  mother,  an*  den 
I  wuz  holdin'  you  in  dese  two  hands.  Now  you  lay 
right  down  an*  go  to  sleep!" 

I  obeyed  her,  but  in  the  nighttime  I  woke, 
terribly  afraid.  At  my  loud  crying  my  mother 
came  in. 

"Dar  now!"  said  Mammy.  " First  you  waked 
yo'self,  an'  den  you  waked  Mammy,  an*  den  you 
waked  yo'  mother!" 

I  clung  to  my  mother.  "Daddy  Guinea  said  the 
sky  was  like  brushwood  and  the  guns  were  like  bull 
frogs  in  hell,  where  there  isn't  any  water!" 

My  mother  sat  down  beside  me  on  the  bed. 
'  *  There,  Michael— there,  Michael!" 

"And  I  wouldn't  ever  tell!  I  was  down  at  the 
big  gate  and  a  colored  man  came  by  and  he  came 
over  and  made  a  face  at  me.  And  he  said,  'You 
were  beaten  poor — and  I  hope  you'll  be  beaten 
poorer!'  And  he  pulled  my  hair  and  he  said,  *I 
couldn't  useter  do  that !'  And  he  said :  '  Don't  you 
dare  go  tell!  If  you  do  I'll  come  at  night  and  make 
mincemeat  of  you!"1  I  burst  into  a  loud  cry. 
"I've  told— I've  told!" 

"Michael!     Michael!" 

"Will  he  make  mincemeat  of  me?" 

"No!    He  can't.     He  was  a  poor  fool!" 

Mammy's  voice  came  from  the  other  side  of  the 
room.  "Dat's  jest  what  he  wuz!  Some  no-'count, 
po'  colored  trash!" 

I  lay  for  a  moment,  quieted,  in  the  bend  of  my 
mother's  arm.  But  then  came  new  perturbations, 
salt  tears.  "What  did  we  do  to  the  colored  people? 
What  did  they  do  to  us?" 

5 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"My  Lawd!"  exclaimed  Mammy.  " Listen  to 
dat  chile!" 

My  mother  moved  upon  the  bed.  "Mammy,  I'll 
stay  with  him  until  he  goes  to  sleep.  Suppose  you 
go  lie  down  upon  the  little  bed  in  my  room." 

"Ef  you  wants  to  talk  to  him,  Miss  Gary,  I  ain't 
gwine  listen!" 

"What  should  I  care  if  you  did!  But,  Mammy, 
you  go  get  your  sleep — " 

Mammy,  sheets  and  pillow  in  her  arms,  went  into 
the  next  room.  My  mother  retook  her  place  beside 
me.  "Michael,  I  think  sometimes  that  you  are  as 
old  as  I,  or  that  I  am  as  young  as  you!  Now  let's 
talk  to  each  other  and  get  rid  of  being  afraid!" 

She  had  on  a  muslin  wrapper  tied  with  a  blue 
ribbon.  I  remembered  it  always,  I  thought.  In  the 
years  since  I  could  notice  she  had  had  few  new 
clothes.  Now  I  wiped  away  my  tears  with  her  flow 
ing  sleeve. 

"What  did  we  do  to  the  colored  people?" 

After  a  moment  she  answered.  "There  isn't  any 
body  here  but  just  ourselves.  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  how  I  see  things.  You've  got  a  mind  under 
that  tousled  hair.  Let  us  straighten  out  things 
together!  .  .  .  Our  great-grandfathers  and  great- 
great-grandfathers  and  great  -  great  -  great  -  grand 
fathers  robbed  the  colored  people  out  of  Africa. 
They  didn't  ask  to  come  out  of  Africa.  The  white 
folk,  North  and  South,  and  English,  and  everybody 
else,  just  stole  them  or  bought  them  from  other 
robbers  that  were  black.  The  white  folk  wanted  to 
make  wealth  with  them  or  out  of  them.  They 
brought  them  over  the  sea  in  ships  called  slave- 

6 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

ships.  The  white  men  who  took  them  were  slavers. 
The  white  folk  •who  bought  them  were  slave 
holders.  The  words,  slave,  slaver,  slaveholder  were 
written  over  everything.  For  all  the  words  of  good 
ness  that  were  written,  these  words  were  written,  too  !' ' 

* '  Written  where,  mother  ?  Written  over  where  we 
live?" 

"Yes!  Written  over  where  we  live.  But  it  isn't 
to  be  forgotten,"  said  my  mother,  with  a  kind  of 
passionateness,  "that  on  a  time — and  no  such  far 
time,  either — they  were  written  over  everywhere  else 
on  earth!  They  are  written  over  some  places  still. 
It's  a  matter  of  progression  in  time  and  place,  and 
over  varying  obstacles,  and  they  wouldn't  always 
have  been  written  over  us!" 

I  hardly  think  that  she  was  speaking  directly  to 
me  now,  though  we  did  talk  all  manner  of  things 
over  together,  she  and  I.  She  was  genial,  with  vision 
and  reach  and  an  independence  of  speech  that 
brought  her  into  disfavor  with  many.  Now  she  sat 
upon  the  bed  in  the  white  wrapper  and  bkie  ribbon 
and  seemed  to  brood  upon  the  darkness  outside  the 
window.  The  lamp  had  been  lighted  again  and  the 
moths  flew  around  it.  There  came,  too,  the  odor  of 
the  lilies  in  the  garden.  The  whippoorwill  had 
stopped  calling,  but  there  mounted  and  entered  a 
whole  tide  of  little  cricket  sounds. 

"Was  the  war  about  the  colored  people?" 

My  mother  turned  her  face  to  me.  "As  I  see  it, 
it  was  partly  about  that  and  partly  about  another 
thing,  called  Theory  of  Government,  and  partly, 
I  reckon,  about  other  things.  .  .  .  Oh,  Michael,  it 
was  a  dreadful  war!" 

7 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

She  bent  herself  and  clung  to  me,  and  I  cried 
again  because  she  was  crying.  But  she  did  not  cry 
a  long  time.  She  shook  her  tears  away  and  made  a 
face  at  me  and  laughed  so  that  I  might  laugh. 
"  It's  over!  We're  all  in  the  Union  again,  or  will  be 
one  day  when  those  we  fought  think  we're  punished 
enough!  And  the  slaves  are  free!" 

"Are  you  sorry,  mother?" 

"No!" 

"And  they're  not  sorry?" 

"The  slaves?    No!" 

"Well—" 

"Well — isn't  it — we  should  be  happier  than  we 
were?  And  some  day  we  shall  be — some  day  we 
shall  be,  Michael!" 

"The  war  killed  father  and  made  us  poor." 

"Yes,  yes!  It  killed  father  and  made  us  poor. 
So  many  fathers  and  so  much  poverty!  And  pain 
and  humiliation.  .  .  .  Everybody  concerned,  through 
long  ages,  might  have  been  wiser,  I  think!  Our 
great-grandfathers  everywhere,  our  fathers,  ourselves, 
and  all.  North  and  South  and  over  all  the  world. 
Pain  and  wreck  and  darkness.  .  .  .  But  if  nights 
are  long,  days  are  long,  too,  Michael!  And  there 
is  a  place — I  believe  it! — where  there  is  no  night. 
And  we  are  going  to  travel  out  of  the  night, 
Michael,  Michael!  You  and  I  and  father  and  all 
of  us—" 

"And  the  colored  people — " 

"Yes,  yes — and  the  colored  people!" 

"Mammy  wouldn't  hurt  us.  Nor  Daddy  Guinea, 
nor  Uncle  Plutus,  nor  Mandy's  Jim,  nor  Mandy,  nor 
Aunt  Esther—" 

8 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

"No,  no!  They're  good  people.  Almost  all  the 
colored  people  I've  ever  seen  were  good  people." 

"But  the  man  at  the  gate — " 

"He  was  giving  back  the  harm  of  the  past.  But 
maybe  at  the  bottom  he  wasn't  wicked.  Don't  be 
frightened  at  him,  Michael,  and  don't  be  angry  at 
him.  All  your  life  try  to  understand  and  to  like 
all  colors  of  people." 

She  rose  from  beside  me  and  walked  up  and  down 
in  the  room,  and  then,  going  to  a  window,  stood  there 
looking  out.  The  warm  wind  lifted  her  hair.  When 
she  came  back  to  me  her  voice  was  gay  and  rich 
and  kind,  as  I  liked  it — as  I  like  it  now,  down  all 
the  years,  around  me  and  with  me  in  the  midst  of  the 
years!  "Now  I  am  going  to  sing  'Happy  Land!' 
And  you  are  going  to  shut  your  eyes  and  go  to  sleep." 

She  sang  and  I  went  to  sleep.  And  in  the  morning, 
when  I  waked,  the  sun  was  shining  and  Mammy  was 
making  her  bed,  and  I  remembered  that  I  was  going 
for  blackberries  with  Ahasuerus,  Aunt  Esther's 
twelve-year-old.  I  seem  somewhere  to  have  heard 
that,  had  the  old  regime  continued,  Ahasuerus  would 
have  been  given  to  me  for  body-servant.  But  it 
had  not  continued,  and  Ahasuerus  was  my  equal 
before  the  law.  It  did  not  trouble  me  then,  nor 
has  it  troubled  me  since. 


CHAPTER  II 

/COLONEL  DUGALD  FORTH,  my  grandfather, 
v->  fought  very  bravely  through  the  war,  from  first 
Manassas  to  Appomattox.  He  saw  two  sons  and  a 
brother  slain,  and  many  kinsmen  and  many  friends. 
He  was  five  times  wounded,  and  the  last  hurt,  at 
Cold  Harbor,  made  him  limp  through  life.  He  had 
put  all  the  money  he  could  raise  into  Confederate 
bonds.  "The  government  must  be  supported,  sir!" 
He  had  seen  his  government  go  down  into  the 
Swire  Deep  of  lost  governments.  The  bonds  were 
worthless.  When  he  came  home,  after  the  Surrender, 
to  Restwell,  it  was  to  find  the  house  standing,  and 
that  was  better  fare  than  had  many  of  his  neighbors 
and  friends.  But  the  negroes  were  free,  and  were 
gone,  most  of  them,  to  the  four  winds.  Those  that 
stayed  were  the  inwardly  attached,  and  that,  in  a 
case  like  this,  meant  chiefly  the  elderly.  And,  staying, 
they  must  henceforth  not  only  be  clothed,  housed, 
and  fed,  but  paid.  He  did  not  see  whence  the  money 
was  to  come  with  which  to  do  it.  It  was  spring 
time  when  he  came  home.  The  fields  lay  unplowed, 
unplanted,  unkempt,  desolate.  The  fences  had  dis 
appeared.  The  cattle,  the  horses,  were  gone  from 
the  meadow-land.  Where  was  stock  to  come  from 
— implements — seeds  even?  Who  would  labor  the 
fields?  The  earth  of  the  plantation  stood,  and  the 

10 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

old  pillared,  brick  house.  Behind,  at  the  foot  of 
Lone  Tree  Hill,  were  the  quarters,  three-fourths 
deserted.  Over  by  the  big  oak  rose  the  overseer 's 
house.  But  his  old  overseer  was  dead,  killed  at 
Sharpsburg.  He  could  not  get,  nor  did  he  need,  a 
new  one.  Down  by  the  creek  he  saw  a  ruin  where 
had  been  his  mill.  He  could  not  rebuild. 

The  bridge  was  gone  from  over  the  river.  He  had 
to  find  and  cross  by  the  old  ford.  Rest  well,  at  that 
time,  stood  eight  miles  from  a  railway.  He  rode 
these  miles  over  a  highway,  unmended  for  so  long 
that  it  must  have  forgotten  the  very  look  of  road- 
menders.  The  railroad — the  railroads — by  which 
he  had  traveled  from  Richmond  were  painful,  de 
crepit  things.  The  fields  to  either  side  lay  fenceless, 
turned  out,  dead.  The  villages,  the  wayside  houses, 
had  a  beaten  look.  Gaunt  chimneys  stood  up,  all 
that  was  left  of  burned  homes.  All  the  South  was 
broken  down.  My  grandfather  loved  the  South. 
Before  him  and  his  region,  to  be  traveled,  perforce, 
ran  the  painful  bitter  road  of  the  years  after  the  war. 
Generosity  is  a  great  virtue  and  is  slow  of  acquisition. 
It  hung  over  North  and  South,  it  descended  here  and 
there,  but  in  these  years  there  was  little  common, 
public  attempt  to  bring  it  down  and  mix  it  with  the 
daily  bread. 

Colonel  Dugald  Forth  came  home.  My  grand 
mother  met  him  with  ejaculations  of  thankfulness  and 
welcome.  His  unmarried  daughter,  my  aunt  Sarah, 
clung  about  him.  My  mother,  his  widowed  daughter- 
in-law,  came  with  the  genial  look  behind  the  tears 
in  her  eyes.  I  was  set  upon  his  knee.  Mammy  came 
and  Uncle  Plutus  and  Aunt  Esther. 

ii 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"  We'll  begin  again,  Dugald!" 

"Father,  they're  here  still — around  and  with  us 
cloud  of  sharers!  And  here's  Michael  to  grow 
up  and  help  you!" 

Courage  in  any  form  insures  a  possible  courage 
elsewhere.  My  grandfather,  at  fifty-five,  took  up 
an  altered  life  and  walked  with  it  bravely.  The 
year  after  the  war  my  grandmother  died.  I  can 
remember  her — a  small,  active,  gallant  woman.  My 
mother  and  I  lived  on  at  Rest  well.  The  man  to 
whom  my  aunt  Sarah  had  been  betrothed  had  died 
in  the  third  year  of  the  war,  a  prisoner  at  Camp 
Chase.  Her  life  was  at  this  time  almost  wholly  sub 
jective,  a  dreamy  intercourse  with  the  past  and  with 
the  future  across  the  grave.  My  grandmother,  feeling 
herself  going,  had  turned  to  my  mother.  "Cary, 
you  take  the  housekeeping.  You  make  them  com 
fortable!"  Later,  when  they  were  all  around  her,  in 
the  dead  of  night,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  said,  "My 
key-basket  to  Cary!"  Then  she  took  her  husband's 
hand  and  held  it,  and  with  her  odd,  inscrutable 
smile,  died. 

So  my  mother  took  the  reins  that  she  dropped. 
My  mother  had  a  strong  power  of  liking  and  loving. 
And  as  she  gave  she  drew.  My  grandfather,  my 
aunt  Sarah,  the  servants,  the  place,  took  light  and 
warmth  from  her,  and  gave  her  from  their  own  store, 
great  or  small.  She  was  a  flame-kindler,  a  beneficent 
ferment.  Kindred  and  acquaintance  differed  from 
her  at  many  points,  would  sometimes  hotly  argue 
with  her.  But  the  level  lifted  where  she  was. 

Uncle  Gilchrist  was  the  youngest  of  my  grand 
father's  children.  Nineteen  when  he  fought  in  the 

12 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

battle  to  be  seen  from  Lone  Tree  Hill,  he  was  pres 
ently  transferred  to  the  Army  of  Tennessee  and 
henceforth  fought  out  of  Virginia.  When  the  end 
came  he  was  artillery  captain,  somewhere  far  south. 
Thence  he  wrote  that  as  soon  as  might  be  he  would 
go  to  Mexico.  He  went,  and  Rest  well  heard  of  him 
as  fighting  with  Juarez.  At  very  long  intervals  came 
a  letter  to  his  father. 

My  father  was  dead,  and  my  uncle  Robert.  Uncle 
Gilchrist  was  in  Mexico.  Aunt  Sarah  lived  at  Rest- 
well.  There  were  left  my  aunts  Harriet  and  Kate — 
Mrs.  Warringer,  Mrs.  Dallas.  Aunt  Harriet  lived  in 
Richmond,  Aunt  Kate  at  Flowerfield,  in  the  next 
county.  The  husbands  of  both  were  living — General 
Warringer,  Major  Dallas,  the  latter  with  an  empty 
sleeve — but  both  men  were  impoverished,  involved, 
like  the  rest  of  our  world,  in  the  huge  debacle.  They 
could  not  help  Colonel  Forth. 

My  grandfather  took  up  his  burden.  Trouble  of 
the  past  and  of  the  present,  a  cloudy  day  over 
spreading,  to  him,  the  future,  made  it  somewhat 
grim  and  heavy.  Men  like  him — like  Warringer, 
like  Dallas — must  somehow  hold  the  time  until 
children  like  me,  like  Warringer's  five  and  Dallas's 
four,  grew  up  to  improve  it.  The  present  work  was 
to  keep  the  South — Virginia — the  heritage's  head 
above  water.  That  must  be  done  despite  very  com 
plete  poverty,  despite  disfranchisement,  despite  a 
stinging  cloud  of  daily  defeats,  despite  a  veritable 
upas-tree  of  memory,  perpetually  waving  a  wel 
come,  perpetually  murmuring,  "Come,  sleep  under 
me!" 

My  grandfather  assumed  his  task,  but  it  bent  him 

13 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

like  the  stony  masses  that  they  bear  in  the  first 
round  of  the  Mountain  of  Purgatory. 

He  must  find  an  inner  way  to  make  it  lighter, 
since  there  was  no  outer  way.  He  first  tried  blind, 
proud  endurance,  an  exoteric  Stoicism.  After  a 
time  this  broke  down.  He  began  to  be  a  reader,  a 
ponderer.  Restwell  owned  a  very  fair  number  of 
books.  The  Forths  possessed  a  good  many,  and 
my  mother  had  brought  with  her  from  her  old  home 
in  eastern  Virginia  her  inherited  portion  of  a  con 
siderable  and  well-chosen  library.  My  grandfather 
turned  from  book  to  book.  At  last,  in  two  or  three 
quartos,  lie  came  upon  Swedenborg. 

Despite  Scotch  blood  and  name,  the  Restwell 
Forths  were  Episcopalians.  Every  Sunday,  in  the 
old  time,  the  old,  roomy,  high-swung  carriage,  the 
two  sleek,  strong  chestnuts,  and  Mingo  or  Daniel 
on  the  box,  had  taken  the  women  of  the  family  to 
St.  Matthew's,  in  the  oak-grove,  in  the  middle  of 
Whitechurch.  Colonel  Forth  and  his  sons  had  rid 
den  there.  In  the  new  time,  in  fine  weather,  my 
mother  and  Aunt  Sarah  walked  the  two  miles.  In 
bad  weather  the  two  farm-horses  were  put  to  the 
old  carriage,  rusty  now  and  shaken,  and  Uncle 
Plutus,  rusty  too,  drove  them  to  St.  Matthew's. 
My  grandfather,  alone,  rode  upon  Selim,  brought 
somehow  through  the  war,  but  old  now  and  with  a 
trick  of  stumbling. 

The  Rev.  Thomas  Millwood  belonged  to  St. 
Matthew's  and  St.  Matthew's  to  him.  He  also  be 
longed  to  Whitechurch  and  Whitechurch  to  him. 
And  to  the  county  at  large  and  the  county  to  him. 
And  likewise  to  Virginia  and  Virginia  to  him.  When 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

the  war  clanged  down  upon  us  he  became  a  fighting 
chaplain.  Then  the  army  belonged  to  him  and  he  to 
the  army.  After  the  Surrender  all  the  one-time 
comrades-in-arms  belonged  to  him  and  he  to  them. 
Later  in  history,  I  do  not  think  that  he  missed  a 
single  Confederate  reunion.  A  younger  man  than 
my  grandfather,  the  two  had  been  at  the  university 
in  the  same  half -decade.  They  had  an  affection  for 
each  other.  There  was  Mrs.  Millwood,  but  she 
moved  like  a  cool,  pale  moon  around  the  orb  in 
activity  that  was  her  husband.  The  pair  had  no 
children,  but  relatives,  temporarily  stranded,  were 
always  more  or  less  permanently  at  home  in  the 
pleasant,  large-gardened,  brick  parsonage  around  the 
corner  from  St.  Matthew's. 

During  and  after  the  war,  the  Millwoods,  too, 
must  cut  the  cloth  of  life  after  altered  patterns. 
Old,  pleasant,  easy  living  and  giving  had  to  be  re 
linquished.  The  toll-gate  bar  swung  decisively 
across  the  road  of  expenditure.  They  gave  up  much, 
but  kept  their  dogmas. 

Mr.  Millwood  always  spoke  of  himself  as  an  active 
Christian.  He  preached  good  orotund  sermons,  and 
he  practised  a  thousand  brotherly  charities  and 
kindlinesses.  He  had,  though  always  within  his  own 
frontiers,  a  strong  social  gift.  I  think  that  he  was 
an  active  Christian,  though  perhaps  not  as  active 
as  he  considered  himself. 

His  marked  impatiences  were  with  religious  doubts : 
"How  can  you  doubt,  sir?  Here — and  here!  Isn't 
it  plain?"  And  with  tokens  of  a  changing  mind 
where  social  and  political  theories  were  in  question: 
"Change,  sir!  Look  at  the  French  Revolution! 

is 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Look  at  the  French  character  to-day!  Look  at  this 
tragic  country!  What  has  brought  about  all  these 
horrors?  Old  ways  not  good  enough!  Unrest! 
Minds  bitten  by  tarantulas!  What  has  been  the 
result — is  it  lovely  and  of  good  report?  Look  at 
the  Northern  character!" 

Mr.  Millwood  came  often  to  Restwell.  All  there, 
white  and  black,  had  an  old  fondness  for  him,  for 
all  could  remember  many  a  goodness.  He  was  a 
large  man,  with  a  broad,  fresh-colored  face  and  a 
manner  at  once  blufT  and  cordial.  He  came  one 
afternoon  and  stayed  to  supper,  the  moon  being 
full  and  the  night  fitted  for  a  ride  back  to  White- 
church  on  his  most  venerable  gray  Dobbin.  After 
supper,  upon  the  porch,  while  they  smoked,  my 
grandfather  opened  upon  his  inner  preoccupations. 

1 '  I  read  more  than  I  used  to,  you  know,  Millwood — 
turn  things  over  more  in  my  mind.  Origins  and 
destinies,  and  so  forth,  you  know.  I  happened,  a 
while  ago,  upon  Swedenborg." 

"Ah  yes!  Swedenborg!  I  tried  to  read  him  once 
and  couldn't,'*  said  Mr.  Millwood.  "'Origins  and 
destinies!'  Stick  to  Moses,  Colonel,  and  to  Matthew, 
Mark,  Luke,  and  John,  and  to  Paul!" 

"Swedenborg  says  that  he  is  only  giving  the 
spiritual  sense  of  the  Scriptures." 

"Haven't  you  all  your  life  heard  given  the  spir 
itual  sense  of  the  Scriptures?  What  is  the  pulpit 
for?" 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  somehow.  .  .  .  We  take  help 
where  we  are  lucky  enough  to  find  it,  Millwood!" 

"Don't  you  go  wandering  after  nightshade  think 
ing  you're  getting  strawberries!  Swedenborg!" 

16 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"If  God  is  Total  and  Divine  Man—" 

"God  is  God,  and  man  is  man!  I  must  say  that 
you  surprise  me,  Forth — " 

"As  a  commentary — " 

"Heterodoxy  always  begins  as  a  commentary! 
You  stick  to  the  plain  letter  of  the  Bible!  Look 
where  the  age  is  being  led!  Emerson  and  Beecher 
— this  man  Darwin  in  England — wild  theories  of 
communism — women  forgetting  their  nature!  For 
God's  sake,  Forth,  don't  you  be  running  after 
strange  idols!  Don't  you  become  a  betrayer!" 

Now  loyalty  stood  very  high  in  my  grandfather's 
scale  of  virtues.  For  some  days  after  this  conversa 
tion  he  read  no  more  Swedenborg.  Indeed,  he  read 
nothing.  It  happened  to  be  a  depressing  week. 
Poverty  bore  hard  upon  the  South ;  unmagnanimous 
political  measures  were  abroad.  There  fell  a  chill 
rain.  The  crops  at  Restwell  proved  small,  and  yet, 
such  as  they  were, 'it  was  hard  to  get  them  gathered. 
The  interest  was  due  on  the  mortgage  he  had  had 
to  place.  Colonel  Forth's  shoulders  were  beginning 
to  be  bowed. 

One  day,  wrhen  it  rained  too  much  to  be  out  in 
the  fields,  he  took  from  his  desk  the  small  Testament 
which  he  had  carried  through  the  war.  He  had  read 
in  it  not  infrequently  during  those  four  years.  But 
the  reading  had  been  more  or  less  perfunctory, 
blind,  unintelligent.  What  the  book  had  chiefly 
given  him  was  a  sense  of  protection,  of  lightness  in 
having  it  upon  his  person.  It  had  been  something 
very  like  an  amulet,  a  fetish.  It  had  turned  no 
bullets,  averted  no  saber  strokes,  but  the  feel  of  it 
under  his  gray  vest  had  been  a  help  to  strength. 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

Once  he  had  missed  it.  There  had  been  a  desperate 
charge,  a  hand-to-hand  fight.  At  the  first  possible 
instant  he  returned  to  the  scene  of  this,  and,  at  risk 
of  death  or  capture,  picked  the  book  out  of  a  blood 
stained,  trampled  hollow. 

Now  he  sat  down  before  the  long  window,  with  the 
sobbing  day  outside,  and  opened  the  Testament. 
It  opened  at  the  Letter  to  the  Romans.  The  Colonel 
read,  and  now  he  touched  idea  where  before  had 
been  uncomprehended  sound.  He  held  the  book  in 
his  hand  and  sat  gazing  out  at  mist  and  rain.  "I 
see,"  he  thought.  "But  Swedenborg  helped  me  to 
see.  Where  is  the  harm,  then,  in  Swedenborg?" 
He  kept  on  thinking.  "Paul  explained,  interpreted. 
.  .  .  Why  should  interpretation  stop  when  every 
thing  here  was  bound  together?  .  .  .  It  has  never 
stopped.  It  is  going  on  now." 

My  grandfather  began  now  to  read  both  the 
Bible  and  Swedenborg.  It  was  a  comfort  to  him 
when  he  dug  from  the  latter  that  members  of  all 
churches  might  apprehend  the  Church  above — the 
New  Church — and  yet  still  sit  among  old  congre 
gations.  He  did  not  want  to  cease  to  go  to  St. 
Matthew's.  He  did  not  want  to  break  with  Millwood, 
or  his  neighbors,  or  kin.  He  did  not  want  the  county 
to  talk  about  Colonel  Forth  and  his  defections. 
He  only  wanted  all  helps  toward  finding  a  shore 
above  his  wasted  world.  Presently  he  began  to 
read  other  mystics  besides  Swedenborg.  And  now 
the  Bible  was  often  in  his  hands.  He  acquired  a 
habit  of  shaking  or  of  nodding  his  head  in  church, 
at  first  only  at  points  in  the  sermon.  Fortunately, 
St.  Matthew's  construed  this  as  a  slight  palsy, 

18 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

creeping  upon  the  colonel  and  manifesting  itself  at 
inconvenient  seasons. 

Now  I  begin  to  remember  my  grandfather  as  he 
appeared  to  a  small  boy.  He  was  a  tall,  bent  man, 
with  a  beard,  with  dreamy  blue  eyes  and  lines  of 
care  above_them.  He  had  a  deep  voice,  somewhat 
drawling  and  caressing — what  is  called  "a  Southern 
voice."  I  used  to  follow  him  about — field  or  orchard 
or  barn — wherever  he  was  going.  And  often  I  rode 
behind  him  on  Selim. 

I  was  very  fond  of  him.  His  long  silences  did  not 
trouble  me.  There  was  always  so  much  to  see  or 
to  think  about  while  he  was  saying  nothing.  When 
he  did  speak  his  voice  wrapped  me  like  a  deep,  old 
wood,  half  melancholy,  slow,  and  always  kind.  He 
answered  my  questions,  too,  with  a  satisfying 
open  door  in  the  answer.  In  that  he  and  my  mother 
were  alike.  When,  by  the  next  day,  I  had  found 
another  closed  door  to  which  the  open  door  had  led, 
he  did  his  best,  with  a  simple  seriousness,  with  this 
one  also. 

Dear  grandfather!  Dear  old  movements  about 
the  old  Restwell  place !  Dear  childhood !  I  go  there 
now  at  will.  I  move  or  sit  or  stand  at  will  in  the 
bright  and  tender  world  of  Memory.  I  alter  there 
where  I  see  that  alteration  is  needed.  I  condense 
or  expand,  strengthen  or  disintegrate.  I  hasten  or 
linger,  I  heighten,  widen,  and  deepen.  I  recognize 
form  within  form.  The  "irrecoverable  Past" — 
there  is  no  such  thing!  I  treat  my  past  as  an  artist 
should.  It  is  mine  and  I  visit  my  vineyard  when  I 
will.  I  prune  and  tend  the  vineyard.  I  make  wine 
from  the  grapes,  and  in  one  chalice,  in  deep  moments, 

19 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

know  my  past's  essence.  "My"  past!  These  pro 
nouns  are  the  bane  of  existence.  "My"  past  is  the 
past — all  the  past.  And  where  has  the  past  gone  to? 
It  is  very  sufficiently  here!  Open  the  gate  and  go 
into  it  at  your  will.  There  is  not  even  a  gate;  there 
is  no  barrier. 


20 


CHAPTER  III 

MY  aunt  Sarah  gave  me  my  first  book  of  poems. 
It  had  her  name  in  it,  and  she  wrote  mine 
beneath  hers  on  my  seventh  birthday.  Within  its 
worn  blue  covers  was  found  a  garland — old  poems, 
old  and  fine — gathered  from  twenty  gardens.  The 
donor  said  that  I  could  not  read  the  book  now,  but 
that  later  I  should.  She  said  that  evidently  I  was 
going  to  be  fond  of  reading.  So  I  was — I  was  already 
fond  of  it.  And  it  was  not  so  long  before  I  read  the 
garland,  and  not  so  long  before  I  set  to  work  to 
memorize  certain  favorite  pieces.  Before  I  was  ten 
I  knew  by  heart  a  number  of  these  component 
blossoms.  And  by  then  I  had  found  in  the  house 
other  books  of  poetry. 

My  aunt  Sarah  at  the  time  when  she  gave  me  the 
book,  stood  a  pale,  slender  woman,  dressed  always, 
when  she  could,  in  white,  not  very  strong,  rather 
silent,  and  with  beautiful  eyes.  Every  side  of  Rest- 
well  life  laid  claim  upon  my  mother's  time.  Aunt 
Sarah  was  not  idle.  She  sewed  swiftly  and  beauti 
fully.  Her  long-fingered,  delicate  hands  accom 
plished  many  a  task  in  a  house  where  now  all  must 
work.  But  she  stood  aside  from  planning  and  over 
seeing,  from  account-book  and  calculation.  Her 
needle  flashed,  her  long  fingers  wiped  and  dusted, 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

but  all  the  time  heart  and  mind  were  traveling. 
She  did  not  desire  household  authority.  I  think  that 
it  was  only  with  strong  relief  that  she  saw  matters 
flowing  toward  my  mother  for  decisions.  Her  own 
decisions  were  almost  wholly  upon  inner  things — 
though  that  means,  of  course,  that  she  did  then 
choose  and  decide  outer  things  yet  to  come.  She 
was  a  great  reader.  But  here,  too,  she  read  for 
practical  aid  in  that  other-lighted  kingdom.  Her 
inner  theme  was  the  ultimate  union  of  all  lovers. 
The  strengthening  of  every  perception,  every  in 
tuition,  that  said,  "It  is  so!"  had  become  her  intense 
preoccupation.  She  read  to  this  end,  thought  to 
this  end,  held  herself  still  and  invited  her  intuitions. 
What  marked  her  off  from  many  women  of  her  ac 
quaintance  who  had  also  lost,  who  also  dreamed 
reunion,  was  that  she  sought  corroboration,  related 
experience,  acceptable  evidence,  not  alone  in  the 
Bible  or  in  books  of  devotion,  but  wherever  she  saw 
or  heard  of  a  rainbow  glint.  Her  mind  was  bold  in 
her  good  cause.  A  defined,  intense,  personal  will, 
patient  and  massive,  led  her  over  the  bound  into  a 
transcendentalism  that  gathered  food  from  every 
sea.  My  grandfather,  weary  of  trouble,  turned 
definitely  to  ' '  sacred ' '  writings.  But  my  aunt  sought 
everywhere. 

About  an  eighth  of  a  mile  from  the  house  there 
lay,  on  the  eastern  slope  of  a  little  hill,  the  Restwell 
graveyard.  Here  were  laid  in  earth  the  frames  of 
my  father  and  my  uncle  Robert,  and  of  my  grand 
mother  beside  two  infants  she  had  lost.  And  others 
were  here,  men,  women,  and  children  of  my  grand 
parents'  generation,  and  older  graves  of  the  genera- 

22 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

tion  before  these.  Piety  kept  fair  the  Restwell 
burying-ground.  Lack  of  working  hands  might  in 
volve  old  lawn  and  garden  in  barbarous  upgrowths, 
but  in  the  graveyard  weeds  were  kept  down,  the 
grass  duly  cut  and  the  flowers  tended.  My  mother 
and  Aunt  Sarah  both  worked  here.  But  my  aunt 
Sarah  was  oftenest  in  the  place.  It  had  become  for 
her  a  secret  palace,  a  cloister,  a  refuge.  Under  the 
oak-tree  she  had  put  a  cross  for  the  man  who  was 
buried  far  away,  where  he  died  in  prison.  The 
Whitechurch  mason  made  it  for  her,  cut  out  of  gray 
stone.  Above  it  rose  the  oak,  of  a  hundred  years 
and  more,  with  outcropping  great  roots.  My  aunt 
Sarah  sat  beneath  it,  with  the  cross  before  her. 
Upright  and  arms,  looked  at  so,  it  quartered  the 
field  of  the  sky.  She  brought  flowers  and  laid  them 
against  the  base.  She  had  a  pansy-bed  just  for  this. 
She  laid  against  the  stone  every  color  of  pansy. 
She  scattered  there  fragrant  leaves,  bits  of  lavender 
and  myrrh,  leaves  of  rose  geranium  and  citronalis. 
She  planted  straw-flowers — "immortelles" — so  that 
in  the  autumn  she  might  gather  them,  white  and 
purple  heads  like  clover,  wider,  sun-hued  disks,  and 
treasure  them  until  the  snows  came.  Then,  a  cluster 
at  a  time,  she  placed  them  against  this  cross,  and 
with  them  sprays  of  cedar  or  white  pine,  ivy  or  holly. 
She  had  a  stand  of  house  plants  and  as  they  bloomed 
she  cut  from  these  and  brought  the  glowing  bits 
of  color  to  the  graveyard.  The  mounds  of  others 
there  were  not  neglected.  Flower  and  herb  and 
evergreen  went  to  these,  too.  She  was  scrupulous 
as  to  this.  But  the  clinging  passion  was  for  the  cross 
that  had  no  mound. 

23 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

As  a  child  I  spent  much  time  in  this  graveyard. 
I  remember  it  when  I  was  five  and  I  remember  it 
when  I  was  ten.  I  entered  it  with  my  mother  or 
with  my  aunt,  and  here,  while  they  worked  or 
dreamed,  I  pursued  my  own  ends.  There  was  much 
that  might  entertain  a  child  used  to  collating  and 
devising  for  himself.  With  an  old  pair  of  scissors  I 
might  cut  away  dead  roses,  or  make  my  own  small 
haymows  of  shorn  grass.  Or  I  might  play  at  various 
houses  between  the  numerous  upstanding  oak  roots. 
I  had  many  mansions  here,  and  with  bits  of  clay 
and  gravel  made  roads  that  linked  the  whole.  The 
place  overhung  the  river.  In  a  far  corner  rose  a 
growth  of  ailanthus  whence  came  excellent  long 
poles  for  many  uses.  In  another  corner  grew  a 
wild  apple-tree.  The  apples  reddened  and  hung 
among  the  green  leaves.  Later  they  might  lie  red 
upon  the  ground.  I  could  not  understand  why  my 
mother  and  my  aunt  would  not  let  me  eat  them. 
They  lay  there,  red,  in  the  grass. 

A  stone  wall  divided  in  half  the  Restwell  burying- 
ground.  On  the  fairer  aspect  of  the  hill,  with  the 
richer  trees  and  the  rarer  flowers,  with  the  marble 
headstones  and  footstones  and  the  half-dozen  older 
flat  slabs  of  granite,  lay  Restwell  Forths.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  wall,  in  a  stretch  not  untended  and 
not  unfair,  but  distinctly  simplified,  were  Restwell 
servants.  Here  ranged  themselves  many  small,  up 
right  wooden  slabs,  with  two  or  three  of  stone  show 
ing  resting-places  of  old,  responsible  negroes  held 
in  affection  by  the  big  house.  The  slabs  were  marked, 
the  place  was  sweet,  overwrought  with  dark,  run 
ning  periwinkle,  with  here  and  there  a  bush  of  lilac 

24 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

or  althea,  with  locust-trees,  heavy  and  sweet  in 
May.  But  still  there  was  the  wall  between,  and  a 
contrast  running  from  of  old.  ...  I  often  scrambled 
over  this  wall  and  played  hide-and-seek  with  myself 
in  and  out  among  the  mounds  and  the  wooden  slabs. 
And,  first  and  last,  I  learned  to  spell  many  words  in 
the  two-sided  Restwell  burying-ground.  On  our 
side  of  the  wall  lichen  and  moss  were  to  be  kept 
from  the  gravestones.  I  liked  to  follow  my  aunt  as 
she  made  each  name  and  the  inscription  beneath 
fair  and  clean.  She  read  them  all  to  me.  Even  be 
fore  I  could  read  I  knew  the  graves  by  name  and 
verse.  But  I  learned  to  read  before  I  was  five. 

The  bank  that  sloped  to  the  river  was  truly  a 
fairy  place  of  moss  and  fern  and  jutting  rock  and 
tremulous,  slender  trees.  It  early  became  to  me  an 
enchanted  wood.  There  was  a  shelf  where  I  could 
stand  and  throw  small  stones  into  the  river  over  the 
bushy  heads  of  willow  and  alder.  Down  in  an  arc 
went  the  flung  stone;  there  followed  a  silver  flash 
and  a  liquid  sound,  then  widening  rings.  I  stood 
here  throwing  stone  after  stone.  .  .  .  Sometimes  there 
was  a  rabbit  or  a  squirrel,  and  always  there  were 
birds  and  other  winged  things,  and  creeping,  charm 
ing  grotesques.  Now  and  then  I  had  a  human  play 
mate.  At  considerable  intervals  Ahasuerus  came 
upon  the  scene.  "Miss  Sarah  done  axed  me  ter 
help  her!"  Ahasuerus  worked  for  a  time,  then,  dis 
missed,  he  and  I  crossed  the  wall  and  scampered 
over  the  matted  periwinkle,  past  the  graves  of  his 
color,  to  the  long,  sloping  bank.  Here,  in  the 
amplest  camaraderie,  we  carried  on  Lilliputian  ex 
plorations,  industries.  But  Mandy's  Jim  almost 

25 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

always  needed  Ahasuerus  in  potato-patch  or  corn 
field. 

My  aunt  Sarah  and  I  grew  into  a  kind  of  com 
munion.  She  was  oftener  in  the  graveyard  than  was 
my  mother,  and  I  was  often  there  with  her.  She 
was  also  fond  of  walking  by  the  river  or  through 
the  home  woods,  and  here  I  was  her  companion. 
My  circle  and  hers  found  their  point  of  interfusion. 
We  had  each  a  sense  of  Nature  and  of  all  musical 
language.  That  I  was  a  child  and  she  a  woman 
made  little  difference.  We  could  talk  and  listen  each 
to  the  other.  She  had  a  way  of  repeating  poems  to 
me,  and  she  let  me  say  over  to  her  the  verses  I 
learned.  It  was  she  who  first  told  me  old  legends 
and  romances.  And  it  was  she  who  most  distinctly 
aided  me  to  see  the  arabesque,  the  come  and  go,  of 
natural  phenomena,  of  night  and  day,  rain  and  shine, 
the  seasons,  the  return  and  rhythm  of  all  things. 
She  aided  the  birth  of  my  sense  of  periodicity, 
directed  my  ear  to  the  drum  of  time.  She  never 
condescended  to  me,  but  talked  as  to  an  equal. 
Of  what  she  said  much  went  by  me  like  the  speaking 
wind.  But  it  went  to  return  in  later  life  and  give  me 
up  then  its  meaning. 

I  recall  many  an  hour  spent  with  her.    Here  is  one. 

On  a  sunny  morning  we  weeded  the  graveyard. 
Then  we  sat  down  under  the  oak  and,  taking  a  book 
that  she  had  brought  with  her,  she  began  to  read 
while  she  rested.  She  often  did  this,  and  some 
times  I  pursued  my  own  ends  while  she  read,  and 
sometimes  I  came  to  her  and  said,  "Read  it 
to  me." 

I  said  it  this  day.  She  looked  at  me  with  her 

26 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

beautiful,  seeking  eyes.  * '  It's  a  piece  by  Edgar  Allan 
Poe.  I  found  it  by  chance  in  this  old  magazine.  I 
read  it  yesterday,  and  now  I'm  reading  it  again. 
But  you  won't  understand  it.  You  had  better  keep 
on  playing." 

But  I  was  tired  of  playing  and  said  so,  and  lay 
down  on  the  clean  ground  with  my  head  against  her 
knee.  Suddenly  she  began  to  read.  She  read  well, 
after  a  quiet,  clear,  impressive  fashion.  Be  it  under 
stood  that  in  speaking  of  my  childhood  I  speak  now 
according  to  its  simple,  momentary  impressions, 
and  now  after  the  larger  knowledge  of  the  upheaping, 
remembering,  sorting,  comprehending  years.  Now 
I  speak  after  the  one  book  and  now  after  the  other. 
She  read  Poe's  "Colloquy  of  Una  and  Monos." 

UNA.    "Born  again!" 

MONOS.  "Yes,  fairest  and  best-beloved  Una,  <born  again.'" 

UNA.     "Death!" 

MONOS.  "  .  .  .  You  are  confused  and  oppressed  by  the  ma 
jestic  novelty  of  the  Life  Eternal.  Yes,  it  was  of  Death  I 
spoke.  And  here  how  singularly  sounds  that  word.  . . ." 

On  went  my  aunt  Sarah's  voice.  The  two  lovers, 
both  "dead,"  both  living,  moving,  speaking  in  a 
land  of  added  senses,  new  tones  in  the  scale,  pursue 
their  colloquy.  They  speak  of  what  they  thought 
of  Death,  in  the  old  world,  and  of  the  mistakes  and 
woes  of  that  world.  And  Monos  had  "died,"  and 
Una,  a  year  later,  had  "died."  And  time  had  passed, 
and  here  they  met,  with  emotion  and  memory  clear, 
sonorous,  golden-true.  Una  asks  Monos  for  a  de 
tailed  recital  of  his  passage  from  the  old  plane  into 
the  other.  He  accedes  and  speaks  further: 

27 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

MONOS.  ".  .  .  Wearied  at  heart  with  anxieties  which  had  their 
origin  in  the  general  turmoil  and  decay,  I  succumbed  to  the 
fierce  fever.  After  some  few  days  of  pain,  and  many  of  dreamy 
delirium  replete  with  ecstasy  the  manifestation  of  which  you 
mistook  for  pain,  there  came  upon  me,  as  you  have  said,  a 
breathless  and  motionless  torpor,  and  this  was  termed  Death 
by  those  who  stood  around  me. 

"Words  are  vain  things.  My  condition  did  not  deprive  me  of 
sentience.  .  .  . 

"I  breathed  no  longer.  The  pulses  were  still.  The  heart  had 
ceased  to  beat.  Volition  had  not  departed,  but  was  powerless. 
The  senses  were  unusually  active,  although,  eccentrically  so — 
assuming  often  each  other's  functions  at  random.  The  taste  and 
the  smell  were  inextricably  confounded,  and  became  one  senti 
ment,  abnormal  and  intense. .  .  .  All  my  perceptions  were  purely 
sensual.  The  materials  furnished  the  passive  brain  by  the  senses 
were  not  in  the  least  degree  wrought  into  shape  by  the  deceased 
understanding.  Of  pain  there  was  some  little;  of  pleasure  there 
was  much;  but  of  moral  pain  or  pleasures  none  at  all.  ...  And 
this  was  in  truth  the  Death  of  which  these  bystanders  spoke 
reverently,  in  low  whispers.  .  .  . 

"They  attired  me  for  the  coffin — three  or  four  dark  figures 
which  flitted  busily  to  and  fro.  .  .  .  The  day  waned.  .  .  . 

"And  now  from  the  wreck  and  the  chaos  of  the  usual  senses 
there  appeared  to  have  arisen  within  me  a  sixth,  all  perfect. 
In  its  exercise  I  found  a  wild  delight — yet  a  delight  still  physical, 
inasmuch  as  the  understanding  had  in  it  no  part.  Motion  in 
the  animal  frame  had  fully  ceased.  No  muscle  quivered;  no 
nerve  thrilled,  no  artery  throbbed.  But  there  seemed  to  have 
sprung  up  in  the  brain  that  of  which  no  words  could  convey  to 
the  merely  human  intelligence  even  an  indistinct  conception. 
Let  me  term  it  a  mental,  pendulous  pulsation.  It  was  the  moral 
embodiment  of  man's  abstract  idea  of  Time.  By  the  absolute 
equalization  of  this  movement — or  of  such  as  this — had  the 
cycles  of  the  fundamental  orbs  themselves  been  adjusted.  By 
its  aid  I  measured  the  irregularities  of  the  clock  upon  the  mantel, 
and  of  the  watches  of  the  attendants.  Their  tickings  came 
sonorously  to  my  ears.  The  slightest  deviation  from  the  true 
proportion — and  these  deviations  were  omni-prevalent — affected 

28 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

me  just  as  violations  of  abstract  truth  are  wont,  on  earth,  to 
affect  the  moral  senses.  Although  no  two  of  the  timepieces 
in  the  chamber  struck  individual  accords  accurately  together, 
yet  I  had  no  difficulty  in  holding  steadily  in  mind  the  tones, 
and  the  respective  momentary  errors  of  each.  And  this — this 
keen,  perfect,  self-existing  sentiment  of  duration,  this  senti 
ment  existing  (as  man  could  not  possibly  have  conceived  it  to 
exist)  independent  of  any  succession  of  events — this  idea — this 
sixth  sense  upspringing  from  the  ashes  of  the  rest,  was  the  first 
obvious  and  certain  step  of  the  intemooral  soul  upon  the  thresh 
old  of  the  temporal  Eternity. 

"  It  was  midnight,  and  you  still  sat  by  my  side.  .  .  .  They  had 
deposited  me  in  the  coffin.  The  lamps  burned  flickeringly.  .  .  . 
The  perfume  in  my  nostrils  ceased.  Forms  affected  my  vision 
no  longer.  The  oppression  of  the  Darkness  uplifted  itself  from 
my  bosom.  A  dull  shock  like  that  of  electricity  pervaded  my 
frame,  and  was  followed  by  total  loss  of  the  idea  of  contact. 
All  of  what  man  has  termed  sense  was  merged  in  the  sole  con 
sciousness  of  entity,  and  in  the  one  abiding  sentiment  of  duration. 
The  mortal  body  had  been  at  length  stricken  with  the  hand 
of  the  deadly  Decay. 

"Yet  had  not  all  of  sentience  departed;  for  the  consciousness 
and  the  sentiment  remaining  supplied  some  of  its  functions  by 
a  lethargic  intuition.  I  appreciated  the  direful  change  now  in 
operation  upon  the  flesh I  was  not  unconscious  of  those  move 
ments  which  displaced  you  from  my  side,  which  confined  me 
within  the  coffin,  which  deposited  me  within  the  hearse,  which 
bore  me  to  the  grave,  which  lowered  me  within  it,  which  heaped 
heavily  the  mold  upon  me.  .  .  . 

"And  here  .  .  .  there  rolled  away  days  and  weeks  and  months; 
and  the  soul  watched  narrowly  each  second  as  it  flew,  and, 
without  effort,  took  record  of  its  flight — without  effort  and  with 
out  object. 

"A  year  passed.  The  consciousness  of  being  had  grown  hourly 
more  indistinct,  and  that  of  mere  locality  had,  in  great  measure, 
usurped  its  position.  The  idea  of  entity  was  becoming  merged 
in  that  of  place.  The  narrow  space  immediately  surrounding 
what  had  been  the  body  was  now  going  to  be  the  body  itself.  . . . 

"Many  lustra  had  supervened.  Dust  had  returned  to  dust. 

29 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

The  form  had  food  no  more.  The  sense  of  being  had  at  length 
utterly  departed,  and  there  reigned  in  its  stead — instead  of  all 
things — dominant  and  perpetual — the  autocrats  Place  and 
Time.  For  that  which  was  not — for  that  which  had  no  form — 
for  that  which  had  no  thought — for  that  which  had  no  sentience 
— for  that  which  was  soulless,  yet  of  which  matter  formed  no 
portion; — for  all  this  nothingness,  yet  for  all  this  immortality, 
the  grave  was  still  a  home,  and  the  corrosive  hours  co-mates." 

There  was  no  more  of  the  colloquy.  It  ended 
there,  with  the  definiteness  of  a  stone  dropped  into 
the  river.  Yet  after  the  stone  the  widening  rings! 
My  aunt  put  down  the  book.  "It  says  no  more. 
But  Una  and  Monos  are  talking,  in  happiness,  each 
to  the  other.  They  move,  they  touch,  they  remember, 
reason,  desire,  and  love.  They  speak  of  being 
'born  again*  and  of  the  ' august  Eternal  Life.'  I 
think  that  as  desire  and  will  slept  and  rested,  so  now 
they  awoke,  moved,  and  gathering  themselves  to 
gether,  found  richer  being  in  a  richer  world !  At  any 
rate,  separation  passed  away  like  a  dream." 

She  sat  with  her  hands  locked  over  her  knees, 
looking  afar.  I  had  a  little  heap  of  acorns,  and  I 
played  with  these — one  acorn,  then  a  line,  then 
two  lines,  then  a  square. 

Ahasuerus  taught  me  to  swim,  Mandy's  Jim  to 
shoot,  my  grandfather  to  ride.  My  mother  taught 
me  to  read,  to  write,  and  to  cipher.  She  carried  me 
into  geography  and  history,  and  through  the  gate 
of  Latin.  All  persons  and  all  things  at  Restwell 
taught  me.  I  was  born  a  listener  and  a  gatherer — 
a  giver,  too,  I  hope,  of  what  I  thought  valuable.  .  .  . 
Out  of  a  thousand  faults  I  pick  pride,  an  indolent 
will,  some  fear,  some  obscure  strains  of  cruelty, 

30 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

fretted  thin,  I  hope,  by  now.  I  see,  too,  oversensitive- 
ness  to  blame,  and  some  finesse.  Now  and  then 
I  lied,  but  not  often ;  generally  under  some  strong, 
imagined  stress.  Physically,  I  was  fairly  strong, 
fairly  healthy.  I  was  early  used  to  being  told  that 
I  had  a  good  mind.  "You  have  a  good  mind — you 
ought  to  study  hard." — "You  have  a  good  mind; 
you  might  grow  up  to  be  the  greatest  help!'*  .  .  . 
The  wings  to  carry  me,  to  lift  my  feet  from  the 
clogging  faults,  were  a  hunger  and  thirst  after 
understanding,  a  sense  for  the  cleanly  and  the  har 
monious,  a  considerable  synthesizing  power,  a  con 
siderable  power  of  idealization.  So  I  ranged  my 
first  decade  here  at  Restwell  in  Virginia — small  tiger 
in  small  jungle,  small  lion  in  small  desert,  small  man 
in  small  earth,  small  angel  in  small  heaven. 

Though  I  lived  chiefly  with  grown  persons  there 
were  times  when  I  forgathered  with  children. 
Ahasuerus  had  a  toddling  brother,  Creed,  and  a  sis 
ter,  Mirny.  They  were  younger  than  I,  but  I  made 
mud  pies  with  them  down  by  the  creek  that  flowed 
past  the  quarters.  And  when  we  went  to  Whitechurch 
or  to  neighboring  country  houses  I  met  children. 
And  there  were  the  Dallas  cousins  at  Flowerfield, 
twenty  miles  away.  Each  summer  they  came  to 
Restwell  for  two  or  three  weeks — my  aunt  Kate  and 
the  four  young  Dallases,  John,  Miriam,  Catherine, 
and  Lewis.  And,  usually  in  October,  my  aunt  Sarah 
went  to  Flowerfield  for  as  long  a  time,  and  I  went 
with  her. 

Flowerfield!  That  was  a  brick  house  somewhat 
larger  than  Restwell,  but  otherwise  quite  like  it.  It 
stood  upon  a  hilltop  and  commanded  a  most  lovely, 

31 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

wide  view.  Before  the  war  Flowerfield  had  meant 
two  thousand  acres  of  rich  land,  green,  watered  mead 
ows,  and  a  famous  breed  of  horses.  During  the 
war  the  land  went  down,  the  horses  were  taken  away. 
The  house  stood  in  the  path  of  a  noted  "raider." 
Together  with  its  many  outbuildings,  it  was  first 
looted,  then  fired.  Barns,  stables,  cabins,  went  off 
in  flame.  But  the  thick-walled  house  withstood. 
Great  damage  was  done,  but  the  strong  shell  rested. 
After  the  war  the  two  thousand  acres  were  parted  into 
three  lots.  One  moiety  went  for  debt;  one  for  some 
money  with  which  to  stock  and  cultivate  the  re 
maining  third.  The  money  it  brought  was  little 
enough.  There  were  no  more  famous  horses.  The 
damage  done  to  the  house  could  be  but  meagerly 
repaired.  When  I  knew  it  as  a  child,  bare  indeed  was 
the  furnishing !  The  raider  had  taken  all  that  could 
be  taken  and  had  smashed  the  rest.  To  help  Flower- 
field  into  a  livable  condition  all  that  could  be  spared 
was  sent  from  Restwell.  And  more  fortunate  neigh 
bors  had  given  with  prompt  kindness  what  they 
could.  But  all  the  Flowerfield  region  stood  in  the 
swathe  of  destruction.  Not  much  could  be  given 
from  one  to  the  other.  For  years  after  the  Surrender 
Flowerfield,  house  and  place,  exhibited  a  bareness 
not  without  its  own  distinction.  War-wrecked,  it 
sang  like  a  ballad. 

Of  the  young  Dallases,  John  and  Miriam  were 
about  of  my  age.  John  was — is — square-made, 
solid  and  good.  Miriam  was — is — Miriam! 

Winter  and  spring  I  looked  forward  to  their  com 
ing  with  summer  to  Restwell.  My  aunt  Kate,  my 
mother  said,  was  like  my  father.  I  see  now  her 

32 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

strong,  irregular  face,  her  brown  eyes,  both  intent 
and  quizzical.  She  and  my  mother  were  good  friends. 
'  *  Gary ' ' — ' '  Kate ' ' — I  hear  their  voices  now. 

Major  Dallas,  like  his  father-in-law,  Colonel  Forth, 
like  his  county  and  like  his  state,  wras  whelmed  in 
the  difficulties  of  a  shattered  order.  He  must  build 
again,  with  effort,  with  struggle — must  do  his  part 
in  the  building  up,  after  new  patterns,  of  the  South. 
A  young  man  still,  he  put  hand  and  mind  to  his  work, 
with  determination,  with  courage  and  ableness. 
His  left  sleeve  hung  empty,  two-thirds  of  his  land 
must  go,  his  house  stood  half  a  ruin.  There  were 
children  to  educate,  a  bedridden  mother  to  keep 
in  something  like  old  comfort.  He  set  to  work. 
I  do  not  remember  him  often  at  Restwell,  but  at 
Flowerfield  I  knew  and  liked  him.  He  was  a  big 
man,  magnetic,  humorous,  fond  of  children.  Before 
the  war,  at  the  university,  he  had  read  law,  had 
been  admitted  to  the  bar  in  '61.  In  '66  he  rented 
the  quaintest  of  law-offices  in  the  shadow  of  the 
court-house  in  the  county  seat,  four  miles  from 
Flowerfield.  In  two  years  he  had  become  the  prin 
cipal  lawyer  of  the  county.  There  was  law  business 
enough,  the  lord  of  law  knows,  in  those  troubled 
years !  But  it  was  business  for  impoverished  clients, 
individuals,  fellow- Confederates,  widows  and  or 
phans.  Major  Dallas  made  little  money.  But  he 
grew  rich  in  the  good-will  of  his  people.  These  were 
the  years  when  Achilles  drew  the  body  of  Hector 
around  Troy.  Major  Dallas  waked  and  wrought 
for  his  region,  fought  gloom  and  bitterness,  cheered 
To-morrow,  backed  Time  to  bring  in  one  and  all 
as  winners.  He  declined  to  be  pessimistic  as  to  the 

33 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

United  States — even  to  be  ironic  over  the  "united." 
"If  we're  big  enough,  each  man  jack  of  us,  North 
and  South,  we'll  find  that  we  are  united!" 

He  turned  gray  early.  But,  for  all  his  empty 
sleeve  and  his  gallant  record,  he  was  a  better  soldier 
after  the  war  than  during  it. 

I  loved  Flowerfield.  I  see  it  in  autumn  with  all 
its  noble  trees  scarlet  and  gold,  and,  in  the  no  great 
distance,  blue  waves  of  mountains.  The  house  had 
— has — an  emanation  for  me,  indescribable,  its 
own,  welcome  to  the  inner  senses.  I  loved  the 
bare,  clean,  little  room  where  I  slept  with  John, 
loved  the  old,  wide  stair,  the  big  empty  hall;  loved 
the  front  porch,  pillared  differently  from  ours  at 
Restwell;  loved  the  wide,  sunny  two-storied  back 
porch;  loved  the  dogs  that  lay  there.  October  is, 
to  me,  to  this  day,  a  royal  month. 

John  and  Miriam  and  I  ranged  together.  Cath 
erine  and  Lewis  were  too  small  for  deep  plans  and 
purposes,  long  strides  afield.  But  the  first  three 
owned  the  world  in  those  Octobers. 

In  mid-October  came  the  nutting,  came  the  smell 
of  wood  smoke,  came  the  Indian  summer.  We  might 
be  poor,  we  might  be  surrounded  by  dubitations  and 
brain-rackings,  we  might  encounter  among  our  adult 
acquaintances  sighs  and  furrowed  brows,  we  might, 
at  times,  from  visiting  folk,  hear  bitter  or  indignant 
utterance  when  newspapers  were  unfolded  and  read, 
we  might  be  dimly  aware  that  we  had  a  life  of  work 
before  us.  A  bitter  war  had  been  fought  with  im 
mediately  bitter  results.  But  yet  children  might  be 
happy.  On  the  whole,  we  children  thought  precious 
little  about  the  war,  or  reconstruction,  or  poverty,  or 

34 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

a  new  order  ripped  from  the  womb  of  the  old.  We 
thought  at  times,  of  course,  archaically,  queerly. 
But  then  surged  in  the  vital  present  of  chinkapin 
strings,  ripening  persimmons  and  black  haws,  drop 
ping  chestnuts  and  tumbling  walnuts. 

June  again,  when  Aunt  Kate  and  the  children 
came  to  Restwell.  .  .  . 

Miriam  was  said  to  be  like  her  mother,  as  her 
mother  was  said  to  be  like  my  father.  Now  she 
was  active,  now  she  was  a  dreamer.  I  have  seen  her 
for  half  an  hour  on  end,  sitting  in  the  sun  or  in  the 
shade,  a  little,  motionless  figure,  her  chin  on  her 
knees,  her  eyes  on  the  ground.  But  when  she  arose 
she  arose  with  a  spring,  became  at  once  the  whole 
hearted  player.  She  and  I  early  found  the  corridor 
between  our  natures.  I  knew  her — know  her — from 
within,  and  she  knows  me. 


35 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  Warringers  lived  in  Richmond,  considerably 
more  than  a  hundred  miles  away.  When,  in 
the  summer,  they  could  leave  town,  they  usually 
went  to  General  Warringer's  parents,  in  Gloucester 
County.  I  early  gathered,  from  some  source  or  other, 
that  my  aunt  Harriet  and  my  uncle  Gilchrist  were 
like  each  other  and  somewhat  unlike  my  father, 
Uncle  Robert,  Aunt  Sarah,  and  Aunt  Kate.  Rest- 
well  and  Flowerfield  did  not  seem  to  have  hold  on 
them.  Daddy  Guinea  told  me  a  little  about  this. 

"Mr.  Gilchrist  an*  Miss  Harriet,  dey  restless.  Lak 
de  Flowerfield  colts — all  wantin7  ter  be  racers!" 

"Isn't  it  good  to  be  a  racer?" 

"Sho!  Ef  you's  er  bawn  racer.  But  some  of 
de  colts  jus*  restless,  V  thinkin'  dey  see  er  race 
track  where  ain't  any!  Of  co'se,"  said  Daddy 
Guinea,  "dey 're  jus'  pawin'  'n'  zigzaggin'  dere  way 
ter  hit!  Ez  I  see  hit,  we're  all  on  de  big  race-track." 

"Is  Aunt  Harriet  pretty?" 

"She  sho  is !  'N'  sweet  ez  honey  de  way  she  talks !" 

I  found  this  out  for  myself  when  I  was  something 
more  than  eight  years  old  and  my  grandfather  took 
me  with  him  to  Richmond.  That  was  an  event! 

The  Surrender  lay  five  years  in  the  background. 
The  South  showed  faint  signs  of  recuperation.  But 

36 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

many  individuals,  speaking  in  terms  of  material 
prosperity,  were  still  upon  the  descending  arc. 
Others  apparently  rested  precisely  at  the  nadir. 
This  last  I  gather  to  have  been  my  grandfather's 
case.  He  had  done  his  best.  Now  he  must  have 
help,  or,  despite  all  struggle,  Restwell  would  go 
under  the  hammer.  He  went  to  Richmond  to  see 
General  Warringer.  Just  why  he  took  me  with  him 
I  do  not  remember,  but  he  took  me. 

Mandy's  Jim  and  the  ancient  carriage  conveyed 
us  through  Whitechurch  and  so  on  by  the  old  high 
way,  by  long  hills  and  level  stretches,  to  the  small 
town  that  bragged  of  a  railroad.  The  colonel  and 
I  together  had  a  small  leather  trunk  and  a  worn 
valise.  He  wore  the  broadcloth  he  had  had  before 
the  war.  My  suit  had  been  fashioned  by  my  mother 
and  Aunt  Sarah  out  of  clothes  that  had  been  my 
father's.  The  colonel's  hat  was  the  Southern,  wide- 
brimmed,  soft,  black  felt.  I  had  a  cap  that  my 
mother  had  made. 

Every  one  on  the  train  appeared  to  know  my 
grandfather.  Every  one  seemed  to  speak  to  me.  It 
was  so  novel !  The  rows  of  seats  covered  with  dark- 
red  velvet,  and  the  windows  like  parallel  lines  of 
dirty  glass  beads,  and  the  stove  at  one  end  and  the 
water-cooler  at  the  other,  and  the  lamps  up  in  the 
painted  roof,  and  the  roar  and  the  swaying  and  the 
jolting,  and  the  smell  and  grime  of  soft  smoke,  and 
the  telegraph-poles  going  by,  and  the  rushing  coun 
try — I  sat  with  my  eyes  wide  and  my  teeth  coming 
down  hard  upon  my  lip.  I  have  reason  to  believe 
that  we  made  something  under  twenty-five  miles 
an  hour.  But  all  things  are  relative.  Mandy's  Jim, 

37 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

the  plow-horses,  and  the  carriage  made  four  and 
a  half  miles  an  hour.  And  when  the  whistle  screamed 
— what  half -fearful,  half-delightful  agitation! 

The  conductor  said:  "  You  don't  often  travel  with 
us,  Colonel.  Glad  to  see  you!"  He  had  a  patch 
over  one  eye  and  a  great  scar  running  across  fore 
head  and  cheek.  When  he  had  punched  my  grand 
father's  ticket  and  gone  by,  and  my  grandfather 
had  explained  why  he  had  punched  the  ticket,  we 
entered  upon  this. 

"Did  he  get  hurt  in  the  war?" 

"Yes.    At  Malvern  Hill." 

"Is  he  poor?" 

"Yes,  he's  poor." 

"Is  everybody  in  the  cars  poor?" 

"Mostly." 

"If  it  lets  us  travel,  I  don't  care!" 

My  grandfather  smiled.    "Do  you  like  to  travel?" 

I  produced  two  of  Mammy's  big  words.  "I  ex 
tremely  and  fastidiously  like  it." 

Mr.  Millwood  was  on  the  train.  I  do  not  re 
member  where  he  was  going — not  to  Richmond,  for 
the  latter  part  of  the  day  we  went  on  without  him. 
But  here  he  was,  and  an  obliging  farmer  changed 
seats  with  him  so  that  he  might  be  next  to  us.  At 
first  I  was  afraid  of  hurting  the  red  velvet  (though 
already  it  was  hurt  enough),  but  at  last,  as  the  train 
was  overhanging  the  river  and  there  was  a  boat 
upon  it  and  men  fishing,  I  got  upon  my  knees  and 
glued  my  forehead  to  the  window.  It  was  a  very 
dirty  window,  but  I  managed  to  find  an  unsmeared 
lane.  Now  the  train  ran  under  limestone  cliffs,  and 
how  it  roared!  Now  it  careered  into  open  country, 

38 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

and  I  saw  the  willows  of  the  river  and  fields  and 
houses. 

Behind  me  Colonel  Forth  and  Mr.  Millwood  were 
talking. 

"So  I  thought  I  would  go  see  Carter  Warringer — " 

' '  I  hope  he  can  help.    I  wish  I  could  help,  Dugald !" 

"I  know  you  do,  Tom.  If  I  can  struggle  on,  I'd 
like  to  keep  the  place  for  the  boy." 

"You'll  pull  through!  The  Lord  isn't  going  to 
desert  you — even  if  you  do  read  stuff  and  nonsense!" 

"The  boy's  got  a  good  mind  and  strong  affec 
tions.  He  ought  to  do  well.  Dugald  had  it  in 
him.  ...  If  I  can  give  Michael  his  schooling  and  start 
him  fair — " 

Mr.  Millwood  nodded  his  big  head.  "In  ten  years' 
time  Major  Dallas  might  take  him  in  his  office. 
Then,  as  a  lawyer,  he'd  be  made!  If  Virginia  ever 
gets  up  from  the  ground  John  Dallas  can  do  what 
he  wants  to — " 

"Yes.  John's  a  strong  man.  Sometimes  I  think 
that  Michael  won't  take  to  the  law." 

"Why  not?  Now  I  don't  see  him,"  said  Mr. 
Millwood,  "in  the  pulpit.  .  .  .  I've  heard  ever  so 
many  war  doctors  say  that  henceforth  doctors  would 
have  a  great  showing — " 

"Doctor  Gilbert  doesn't  believe  he'll  be  a  doctor. 
Just  as  I,"  said  Colonel  Forth,  "don't  see  him  as  a 
farmer." 

"It's  a  right  hard  thing  to  find — a  way  of  living 
that  your  whole  heart's  in!  I  found  it,"  said  Mr. 
Millwood.  "The  law's  the  road  to  political  life — 
if  ever  we  have  any  political  life  again!" 

"I  don't  know.  I  feel  sometimes,"  said  my  grand- 

39 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

father,  "strange  new  things  in  the  earth,  pushing 
up.  A  curtain's  down,  Millwood!" 

We  were  on  the  river  again.  It  flashed  and  bent. 
There  was  a  broken  dam.  Then  a  mill  with  a  great 
wheel.  .  .  .  Now  we  were  away  from  the  water, 
rushing  through  forest.  The  whistle  screamed.  My 
knees  sank  into  the  worn  and  blackened  velvet; 
my  hands  held  the  cinder-strewn  window-sill,  my 
forehead  pressed  the  glass  where  the  last  shower 
had  left  dirty  tear  marks.  Inside  me  was  wild, 
bright,  tense,  rushing  adventure. 

After  a  while  I  tumbled  back  and  slept. 

When  I  waked,  Mr.  Millwood  was  gone.  My 
grandfather,  in  the  seat  behind  me,  read  a  news 
paper.  We  had  dinner  out  of  the  willow  basket 
packed  by  my  mother,  and  we  shared  it  with  an  old 
lady  and  her  grandson,  a  boy  of  sixteen,  also  on  their 
way  to  Richmond.  The  boy  was  to  be  entered  with 
a  cousin  in  the  tobacco  business.  "Make  what  men 
want  and  sell  it  to  them!"  said  the  old  lady.  "Just 
farming  and  lawing  and  ruling  have  got  to  sit  back 
for  a  spell,  Colonel!" 

In  the  physical  landscape  the  mountains  had  sunk 
from  sight.  The  hills  had  all  lowered  in  height. 
The  wooded  country  showed  another  aspect.  Broom 
sedge  became  plentifully  in  evidence.  All  that  ride, 
out  of  my  window,  might  be  seen  agricultural  pov 
erty,  poverty  of  town  and  village.  With  something 
of  frequency  rose  out  of  green  or  brown  earth,  like 
ruined  tombs,  chimneys  and  hearths  and  nothing 
more.  Everywhere  fencing  was  makeshift,  and  once- 
painted  houses  had  forgotten  the  event.  The  roads 
that  the  train  crossed  or  paralleled  showed  stony 

40 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

ledge,  rut,  and  mud-hole.  But  the  sun  was  shining 
and  the  spring  woods  were  greening. 

A  stout,  well-dressed  man  came  and  sat  beside 
my  grandfather.  "Glad  to  see  you,  Colonel  Forth! 
Well,  what's  the  news  in  your  part  of  the  state?" 

They  talked.  After  a  while  said  the  stout  man, 
looking  out  of  window:  "I  have  been  North.  Their 
country  looks  prosperous!" 

My  grandfather  rested  his  thin  brown  hands, 
palm  in  palm,  upon  his  newspaper.  His  voice  when 
he  spoke  had  an  unusual  deep  vibrancy.  '  *  I  am  glad 
that  part  of  our  country  is  prosperous." 

"'Our  country'!"  So  you  have  come  to  that?" 

"Yes,"  said  my  grandfather.  "Our  South,  our 
North,  our  East,  our  West.  Our  America,  our 
Europe,  our  Asia,  our  Africa.  Our  earth." 

"Well,  I'll  be—!  You  didn't  talk  that  way, 
Colonel,  during  the  Seven  Days,  nor  in  the  Peters 
burg  trenches !'% 

"No,"  said  my  grandfather.  "Live  and  learn, 
Otway!  Live  and  learn." 

"Well,  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Otway,  "that  where 
I've  been  it's  'Our  North — and  you  in  the  South, 
damn  you!'" 

"Yes,"  said  my  grandfather.  "They,  too,  have 
got  to  live  and  learn.  We  haven't  been  doing  much 
living,  any  of  us!" 

"All  that's  a  new  lingo!"  said  the  stout  man,  and 
presently  went  back  to  his  companion  at  the  end 
of  the  car.  I  think  that  he  said:  "The  old  Colonel 
must  have  been  a  Union  man  before  the  war.  I  never 
heard  of  it,  but  he  must  have  been!" 

The  worn  engine  and  the  worn  cars  and  the  worn 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

road-bed,  the  engineer  with  a  wooden  leg,  the  brake- 
man  too  young  to  have  fought,  the  conductor  with 
the  patched  eye  and  the  scar,  the  passengers  discuss 
ing  Readmittance,  and  bad  times,  and  better  times 
perhaps  in  the  misty  future,  crops  and  Ku-Klux 
and  the  war  in  Europe,  creaked  and  jolted  and 
roared,  twenty-odd  miles  an  hour.  Twice  occurred 
prolonged  halts.  We  were  an  hour  and  a  half  late 
and  came  upon  Richmond  red  in  a  great  sun 
set  flare.  The  stout  man,  passing  the  colonel 
and  me,  said,  "It  looks  like  the  burning  five 
years  ago!" 

Colonel  Forth  and  I  got  out  of  the  train.  He 
carried  the  old  valise  and  I  the  willow  basket.  There 
seemed  a  kind  of  long  shed,  and  so  many  persons 
speaking  and  hurrying  in  the  shadows,  that  I  felt 
vague  fear  and  pressed  close  to  my  grandfather. 
Then  we  heard  General  Warringer's  authoritative 
voice.  "Here  they  are!  Well,  Colonel,  and  how  are 
you  ?  Is  this  giant  Michael  ?  How  do  you  like  travel 
ing,  youngster?" 

A  negro  with  the  general  took  basket  and  valise. 
We  went  through  the  station.  Outside  we  encoun 
tered  a  throng  of  negro  drivers,  vociferous,  extolling 
the  merits  of  various  hotels — The  Ford — The  Wash 
ington — The  Exchange,  and  Ballard — gesticulating, 
long  whip  in  hand,  toward  painted  omnibuses  or 
ancient  hacks.  Coming  to  a  carriage,  we  entered  it, 
waited  for  the  leather  trunk  to  be  deposited  beside 
the  coachman,  then  moving  off,  began  presently  to 
climb  a  hill.  The  sunset  reddened  all  the  sky.  My 
grandfather  sat  as  in  a  dream.  "I  have  not  been 
here  since  the  Evacuation."  He  bent  forward. 

42 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

" There's  the  Capitol!  .  .  .  The  Stars  and  Bars— The 
Stars  and  Stripes." 

The  Warringers'  house,  old,  large,  square,  gray 
stucco,  with  tall  magnolias  about  it,  furnished  within 
with  pier-glasses  and  crystal  chandeliers,  long  damask 
curtains  and  much  mahogany,  inspired  me  with 
some  awe.  The  Warringers  said  they  were  poor,  but 
I  couldn't  immediately  see  it.  And  Richmond  was 
a  broken  city.  But  to  me  it  showed  Aladdin  marvels 
of  shop  windows,  spires  of  churches,  street-car,  and 
market,  General  Washington  on  his  bronze  horse 
far  up  against  the  blue  sky,  and  squirrels  in  Capitol 
Square  that  took  peanuts  from  one's  hand  as  one 
sat  on  benches.  I  had  never  been  able  to  get  a 
squirrel  in  a  real  wood  to  do  this.  And  the  bronze 
horse  and  rider  that  never  moved,  that  stayed  there ! 
Wouldn't  you  go  galloping  through  the  sky? 

Twice  I  was  taken  to  the  theater.  I  saw  a  play 
of  the  West,  California,  and  the  gold-diggers.  And 
I  saw  a  noted  actress  in  "Maria  Stuart."  .  . .  Wonder 
world ! 

I  did  not  love  the  Richmond  Warringers  as  I 
loved  the  Flowerfield  Dallases.  Yet  I  loved  them. 
It  is  my  way  to  taste  persons,  to  perceive  them 
volatilized,  as  it  were,  so  that  the  mind  passes  in 
and  out  among  spoken  and  unspoken  words,  gest 
ures,  obvious  and  unobvious  —  goes,  too,  off  the 
absurd,  medicine-dropper  business  of  present  mo 
ments.  .  .  . 

My  aunt  Harriet  had  a  beautiful  skin,  beautiful 
hair,  a  beautiful  mouth.  She  dressed  beautifully, 
for  all  of  poverty.  She  loved  people  around  her, 
and  she  talked  wittily.  The  table  was  always  laugh- 

43 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

ing.  She  had  a  gift  of  mimicry.  She  was  ambitious 
for  herself,  her  husband,  and  her  children.  She 
wished  General  Warringer  to  become  a  public  man. 
She  was  sure  that  it  was  going  to  be  possible,  now 
that  Virginia  was  readmitted,  and  Southern  men 
were  beginning  to  lay  hands  again  on  their  own 
affairs.  She  meant,  in  the  first  place,  Southern 
white  men,  and  in  the  second  place  the  old  propertied 
class.  " Their  own  affairs !"  meant  traditional  things, 
political,  social,  and  economic.  For  herself  she  wished 
beautiful  clothes,  leisure  to  attend  to  her  beautiful 
body,  leisure  also  to  read  clever  books,  to  observe, 
go  about,  "experience,"  feed  her  wit.  Leisure  and 
money — money  being  with  positiveness  the  only 
way  to  get  leisure  and  the  rest  of  it!  As  women 
could  not  make  money,  General  Warringer  must 
make  it.  Such  was  her  triple-walled  castle.  Yet 
there  was  a  corner  where  the  walls  were  really  only 
honeycombs.  She  had  a  gay  sweet  garden  here. 

They  had  lost  two  children.  There  remained 
Carter,  Royal,  and  Dorothea.  These  made  friends 
with  me.  We  fed  the  squirrels  together.  They 
boasted  of  the  sea  to  which  they  went  in  the  summer, 
and  I  of  the  mountains. 

My  grandfather  and  I  spent  ten  days  in  Richmond. 
He  got,  I  know,  the  loan  from  his  son-in-law,  though 
I  know,  too,  that  there  were  difficulties.  General 
Warringer  considered  him  a  dreamer.  Good  money 
would  go  after  bad  at  Restwell,  and  God  knew 
there  was  little  enough  money,  good  or  bad!  The 
colonel  would  not  be  able  to  keep  the  place.  .  .  . 
But  he  was  fond  of  the  colonel,  and  they  were  his 
wife's  people.  General  Warringer,  whose  interests 

44 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

were  tobacco  and  mining,  managed  to  scrape  to 
gether  the  three  or  four  thousands  needed  to  stave 
off  the  sale  of  Restwell. 

There  came  up,  too,  the  question  of  my  future. 

"If  he's  intelligent  and  energetic,  I  might,  when 
he's  finished  his  schooling,  find  some  opening  for 
him.  If  I  were  you  I'd  give  him  a  scientific 
education.' 

"Scientific?" 

j"  Colonel,  our  old  world  is  changing!  You  and  I 
got  along  very  well  with  the  classics  and  what  not. 
But  I'm  going  to  make  Carter  an  engineer,  and  I 
want  Royal  to  train  for  finance,  railroading — some 
thing  live  and  moving — " 

"Scientific."  It  was  a  new  thought  to  my  grand 
father.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him  in  the  train, 
talking  to  Millwood.  .  . .  Swedenborg  had  begun  with 
Science. 

At  General  Warringer's  he  heard  much  speculative 
talk.  Men  came  there  who  were  looking  ahead. 
The  South  was  to  be  developed,  that  was  evident. 
Canals,  railroads,  furnaces,  factories — the  day  for 
such  things  was  at  hand.  "Five  years,  and  you'll 
see  it  beginning — beginning — beginning!  A  quarter 
of  a  century  and  the  South  '11  be  richer  than  ever  it 
was !  Northern  capital  ?  Certainly — at  first !  We'll 
mix — forget- — get  our  arms  round  one  another  there 
first.  In  business!" 

Colonel' Forth  made  a  diffident  remark.  "We'll 
seek  more,  too,  don't  you  think,  in  ourselves?  Get 
things  together  there?" 

"I  don't  know  about  all  that,"  said  his  son-in- 
law,  drinking  his  coffee.  "Material  enterprises  are 

45' 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

big  enough  for  me  just  now!  You  mustn't  under 
rate  them,  Colonel!  •  That's  the  danger  for  your 
kind." 

'The  colonel  admitted  it.  ''But  you  mustn't 
think  either  that  mining  and  engineering  and  rail 
roading  and  canalling  aren't  carried  on  upon  other 
floors.  They  go  all  through,  I  think." 

Spring  burst  out  softly,  fully,  while  we  were  in 
Richmond.  The  ten  days  passed.  We  said  good-by 
to  all  the  Warringers.  Here  once  more  was  the  train. 
...  As  we  went  through  country  that  had  been 
ground  of  battle,  and  again  battle,  and  again  battle, 
the  dogwood  made  a  milky  way  of  each  piece  of  wood 
land.  Once  more,  with  knees  sunk  into  grimed 
velvet,  I  looked  out  of  window.  The  day  was  so 
warm  that  the  glass  was  up.  The  world  was  the 
clearer  for  that. 

My  grandfather  left  me  alone  for  a  while.  At 
last  he  came  back,  "Michael!"  I  turned  from  the 
window. 

"General  Lee  is  in  the  next  car.  Come!  I  want 
to  show  you  to  him." 

He  straightened  my  tie  for  me,  brushed  back  my 
hair,  and  saw  that  my  hands  were  pretty  clean. 
We  went  into  the  next  car,  and  to  a  white-bearded, 
gentle,  very  fine-looking  man.  He  put  out  his  hand 
to  me,  asked  me  a  question  or  two  which  I  an 
swered,  and  I  stood  held  against  his  knee  for  five 
minutes  while  he  and  the  colonel  talked.  Then  we 
went,  my  grandfather  and  I,  back  to  our  own  car 
and  the  dogwood  stars  outside  the  window  and  the 
rushing  country  and  the  blue  sky  and  the  flight 
of  birds. 

46 


CHAPTER  V 

MADAM  BLACK  had  a  French  mother  and  a 
Russian  father,  an  education  partly  French, 
partly  English,  and  an  English  husband  who  brought 
her  with  him  to  America  on  a  hunt  for  Fortune,  to 
be  found,  presumably,  on  a  tract  of  Virginia  land 
bought,  without  seeing  it,  from  an  agent.  The  land 
proved  a  heinous  disappointment.  Mr.  Black  died. 
His  wife  was  left  with  admirable  powers  and  educa 
tion,  but  with  no  money,  and  in  what  to  her  was  a 
foreign  country.  She  must  sell,  if  she  could,  her 
poor  piece  of  land.  Needing  lawyer's  advice,  she 
came  to  the  nearest  small  town  to  her  disastrous, 
stony  mountain-side,  and  to  Major  Dallas's  office 
under  the  court-house  oaks.  He  gave  her  counsel; 
she  sold  the  land,  though  for  a  tiny  sum,  and  pres 
ently  moved  into  the  town,  to  a  small,  small  white 
house  behind  syringa  and  althea  bushes.  The  towns- 
folks  discussed  her,  her  foreign  ways,  her  gestures, 
her  peculiar,  stripped,  efficient  housekeeping.  She 
was  a  big  woman,  somewhat  gaunt,  but  supple  and 
powerful,  with  iron-gray  hair,  with  a  beak  of  a  nose, 
and  a  mouth  beneath,  wide  and  wise  and  humorous. 
She  spoke  in  Virginia  a  beautiful,  pure,  book  Eng 
lish,  but  thought  in  three  languages. 

My  aunt   Kate,   at   Major    Dallas's  instigation, 

47 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

went  to  see  her,  liked  her,  went  again,  brought  her 
to  Flowerfield  for  two  or  three  days.  The  children 
liked  her.  She  had  a  great  store  of  folk  tales  of 
all  lands  and  she  told  them  with  the  vivid  distinc 
tion  of  a  good  witch.  She  was  capable,  as  all  her 
friends  soon  found  out,  as  she  herself  with  honesty 
acknowledged,  of  explosions  of  anger  quite  alarming 
to  the  uninitiated.  But  these  never  occurred  of  tener 
than  once  a  week.  Moreover,  they  were  generously 
abstract.  The  individual  was  only  chastised  in  the 
whole.  The  storm  cleared  the  air,  and  until  the  next 
thunder-clap  she  was  as  good  as  sugar — brown 
sugar,  maple  sugar.  She  was  a  pianist  of  no  mean 
ability,  she  had  a  wide  knowledge  of  letters,  she  read 
and  spoke  English,  French,  Russian,  and  German — 
and  she  got  along  well  with  children. 

Major  Dallas  and  Aunt  Kate  had  the  same 
thought.  In  six  months  after  she  had  taken  the 
little  white  house,  Madam  Black  closed  it  and  came 
to  Flowerfield  as  governess.  I  don't  think  anybody 
ever  regretted  it.  The  Dallases  and  she  flowed 
together  with  a  certain  natural  grace  and  strength. 

I  was  nine  years  old.  My  mother's  life  from  morn 
till  night  was  filled  with  activities.  She  had  a  fair 
Southern  education,  and  a  beautiful,  strong,  lucid 
mind  and  heart  that  made  the  best  of  what  she  had. 
But  she  said  that  she  saw  that  I  was  going  ahead 
of  her.  (I  could  never  go  ahead  of  her  in  the  things 
of  truest  value.)  She  taught  me  for  two  hours  each 
day,  but  then  things  waited  for  her  at  the  door. 
I  see  her  now,  sitting  in  a  low  chair  in  the  flickering 
green  light  from  the  window,  reading  a  letter  from 
Aunt  Kate,  and  then,  the  letter  in  her  lap,  looking 

48 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

at  me  drawing  pictures  on  my  slate.  I  was  copying 
a  ship  out  of  my  geography. 

Two  or  three  days  later  she  and  I  took  the  old 
red  stage  at  Whitechurch  and  went  for  a  short 
visit  to  Flowerfield.  Madam  Black  was  there.  My 
mother  liked  her,  too.  In  less  than  a  week  we  were 
back  at  Restwell. 

I  couldn't  go  to  sleep  that  night.  I  sat  up  in  my 
bed  and  stared  at  the  starry  squares  that  were 
windows.  Then  I  took  it  into  my  head  that  there 
were  giants  in  the  room  and  that  I  had  better  go 
down-stairs.  Mammy  no  longer  had  her  bed  in 
the  corner,  and  I  made  sure  through  the  open  door 
that  my  mother  was  not  in  her  room.  I  stole  out 
of  bed  and  over  the  cool,  dark  floor,  out  of  the  room 
and  across  the  landing  to  the  stair  and  half-way 
down  it.  Thence  I  could  see  in  my  grandfather's 
room,  for  that  door,  too,  was  open.  Grandfather 
and  mother  and  Aunt  Sarah  were  sitting  there, 
talking.  I  could  not  hear  what  they  said — only 
the  murmur  of  one  voice,  now  of  another.  They 
looked  so  earnest!  They  all  sat  near  the  table, 
where  were  grandfather's  books  and  papers,  where  he 
and  my  mother  went  over  accounts  together.  The 
lamp  that  stood  here  made  a  kind  of  pale  sunlight 
about  them.  Grandfather,  with  his  white  beard, 
looked  like — like — like  King  David!  This  brought 
forth  another  imagination.  We  had  a  book  of  fine, 
tinted  prints — The  Women  of  the  Bible.  Mother 
and  Aunt  Sarah  were  sitting  there  out  of  this  book. 
I  had  a  curious  feeling.  The  giants  were  forgotten. 
I  sat  on  the  stairs,  holding  my  feet  in  my  hands. 
The  sensation  was  of  being  somewhere  outside, 

49 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

looking  in  upon  the  world.  After  a  time  I  started 
to  speak — but  they  looked  so  earnest.  I  turned 
and  without  noise  went  up-stairs  and  across  the 
upper  hall  and  into  bed.  Anyhow,  the  giants  were 
gone.  I  faced  a  square  of  branchy  stars.  One  of 
them  caught  and  held  me  .  .  .  and  then  I  went 
to  sleep. 

The  next  morning  my  mother  told  me  that  when, 
in  October,  I  went  with  Aunt  Sarah  to  Flowerfield, 
I  was  not  coming  back  when  Aunt  Sarah  came.  I 
was  going  to  stay  with  Aunt  Kate  and  Uncle  John 
and  go  to  school  to  Madam  Black,  with  John  and 
Miriam  and  Catherine  and  Lewis.  At  Christmas  I 
should  come  home  for  a  week,  and  in  May  I  should 
come  for  the  whole  summer.  And  grandfather  would 
see  me  sometimes  at  Flowerfield,  and  mother  was 
certainly  coming  in  the  winter.  And  I  was  to  be 
her  Michael  still,  and  learn,  and  grow — "grow  al 
ways  more  good,  more  wise,  my  Treasure,  my 
Blessing—" 

It  awed  me  to  be  leaving  home.  There  was  awe, 
too,  in  the  thought  of  living  at  Flowerfield.  I  moved 
about,  exalted.  Space  seemed  to  have  enlarged  be 
tween  me  and  the  sky,  between  me  and  the  horizon. 
I  experienced  a  desire  for  solitude.  I  achieved  this 
on  the  side  porch  that  gave  on  the  lilac  walk,  and 
where  there  was  nothing  more  disturbing  than  a 
procession  of  young  turkeys,  in  and  out  of  the  light 
and  shadow  upon  the  grass.  I  sat  here  with  my  chin 
on  my  knees.  Really  to  live — live  half  the  time — 
at  Flowerfield!  Restwell  was  dear — Flowerfield  was 
dear.  I  figured  it  out  that,  after  all,  a  half  to  each 
wasn't  a  bad  thing.  Everybody  at  Restwell  was 

50 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

going  to  write  to  me,  and  I  was  going  to  write  to 
them.  My,  mother  would  write  every  week,  and  I 
was  to  draw  pictures  for  her  and  send  them.  I 
dug  out  something  else.  "Every  time  I  think  of 
them  I  can  see  them."  I  shut  my  eyes.  "Now  I  am 
thinking  of  grandfather.  I  see  him.  Now  I  am 
thinking  of  mother — " 

I  tried  this  with  other  persons.  I  was  the  experi 
menter,  full  swing.  The  going  from  home  fell  into 
the  background.  Persons  and  things  in  Richmond 
— at  Whitechurch — at  Flowerfield — I  could  see  them, 
hear  them!  The  train  to  Richmond — I  could  make 
that  so  real  that  I  felt  the  velvet,  smelled  the  coal 
smoke,  found  in  my  body  the  swaying  and  jolting, 
turned  a  little  dizzy.  ...  I  left  that  and  sat  in  Capitol 
Square,  above  me,  against  the  blue  sky,  bronze 
General  Washington.  Consciously,  with  desire  and 
forethought,  I  walked  into  the  past.  There  had  been 
a  broken  bench  that  we  could  not  use,  under  the 
greatest  tree,  whence  one  might  see  General  Wash 
ington  to  best  advantage.  I  now  mended  the  bench 
and  sat  there.  I  was  on  the  road  to  discovery  that 
where  there's  a  will  there's  a  way — to  alter  anything ! 

In  October  I  went  to  Flowerfield.  For  the  next 
four  years  I  spent  the  major  part  of  each  year  at 
Flowerfield.  I  learned  there,  I  grew  there,  as  in  a 
spring  season,  as  in  south-by-west  zephyrs. 

Madam  Black  taught  us  in  a  bare,  sunny  room, 
in  an  ell  of  Flowerfield  house.  Outside  were  turf 
and  a  tremendous  tulip-tree.  Catherine  and  Lewis 
had  their  lessons  early,  were  out  and  gone  by  eleven 
o'clock.  John  and  Miriam  and  I  were  her  real 
scholars. 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

I  think  that  she  was  a  born  teacher/  Madam 
Black — Madam  Black,  I  find  you  in  me  at  many 
turns — a  welcome  inflowing! 

She  had  a  cosmopolitan  mind.  She  dwelt  among 
ideas,  hunted  relations,  pounced  upon  likenesses. 
She  was  as  daring  an  explorer  as  ever  sailed  for  the 
pole.  Many  a  notion  that  I  have  watched  emerge, 
in  these  later  days,  tentatively,  slowly,  even  now 
weighed  most  doubtfully  in  the  general  hand,  was 
hers  in  the  'seventies.  She  had  a  way  of  say 
ing,  "I  fancy — "  and  then,  from  under  her  eagle 
nose  out  of  her  wide  mouth,  in  her  deep,  posi 
tive  voice  came  "fancies"  of  an  extraordinary 
viability. 

She  was  a  geographer  of  the  first  water.  With 
her  for  ciceronej  we  saw  our  earth  throughout  its 
structure,  as  pupils  of  our  age,  I  am  sure,  very  rarely 
see  it.  She  had  a  genius  for  relating  things,  for  con 
tinuities  and  correspondence,  for  the  stroke  of  the 
eye.  She  ranged  like  an  eagle,  swooped  and  rose 
like  one.  The  same  traits  appeared  when  she  taught 
us  history.  We  got  out  of  "favored"  lands  and 
times  and  "chosen"  people — chosen,  at  least,  in 
any  orthodox  sense.  The  cells  called  Kings  and 
Queens  and  Important  Events  and  Great  Battles 
ceased  to  protrude  monstrously  from  the  cellular 
tissue.  The  emphatic  note,  "Height  of  Mount 
Everest,"  became  but  an  orderly  detail  in  the  pas 
sage,  "Himalayas,"  as  the  Himalayas  subordinated 
themselves  to  "mountains,"  and  mountains  re 
membered  valleys,  and  both  that  they  were  of  the 
lithosphere.  When, for  reasons,  we  came  to  majesties 
of  form  and  height,  to  the  pictured  off,  she  could  well 

52 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

make  us  see  Mount  Everest  and  the  Himalayas. 
She  herself  knew  Alp  and  Apennine  and  Caucasus. 
Remembering,  I  feel  again  snowy  and  deep-chasmed 
grandeur! 

She  did  with  watery  surfaces  as  she  did  with  the 
solid.  No  one  who  went  to  school  to  Madam  Black 
might  ever,  for  instance,  see  Niagara  as  a  giant 
plunge  out  of  nothing  into  nothing,  nor  a  strait  or 
channel  like  a  waste  snippet  of  thread.  What  came 
before  and  after,  what  flowed  on  the  one  side  and  on 
the  other,  what  to  any  ranging  eagle  would  be 
simultaneous,  contemporaneous,  she  saw  herself  and 
made  her  pupil  see.  Niagara  and  Gibraltar  Strait 
came  into  a  water  symphony  that  sounded  from 
pole  to  pole,  that  ran,  like  Alpheus,  underground, 
and  flew  in  clouds  in  the  air. 

So  with  tribes,  nations,  races,  species.  Hers  was 
a  rich  and  large  realism  in  which  abstractions  and 
universals  became,  as  it  were,  tangible  and  visible, 
phenomena  like  other  phenomena — to  the  born 
eagle  phenomena  into  which  other  phenomena  were 
resolved. 

She  was  a  bold  reader.  She  had  a  friend  in  New 
York — a  man  doing  some  kind  of  research  work — 
who  sent  her  from  time  to  time  great  parcels  of  books, 
English,  French,  and  German.  She  used  to  sink 
like  an  eagle  into  these,  to  rise  with  meat  in  her 
talons.  .  .  .  These  were  the  years  in  which,  certainly 
to  the  mass  of  the  United  States,  "Darwin"  sounded 
mightily  like  "Antichrist,'1  Huxley  and  Haeckel, 
and  all  their  company,  like  the  Miltonic  lesser  fallen 
angels.  They  were  the  years  when  throughout  a 
wide  swathe  of  society  Middlemarch  was  slurred 

S3 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

because  its  author  was  not  married  to  Lewes;  when 
all  French  literature  was  called  immoral,  when  the 
good  died  young  in  Sunday-school  books,  when 
Browning  was  thought  unintelligible,  when  Ingersoll 
was  certainly  damned,  when  architecture  and  fur 
niture  went  into  a  senile  doze.  Up  a  long  stair  from 
this,  it  was  the  period  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray, 
and  Lord  Tennyson  was  at  his  height  of  fame. 
But  Madam  Black  belonged  to  force-lines  in 
the  background — reserves  in  the  shadows  of  the 
future.  She  took  from  books  hall-marked  "ad 
vanced"  what  suited  her,  and  flew  on  over  the 
landscape. 

Because  of  her  very  scope,  she  had  a  passion  for 
the  single  word.  Every  word  opened  into  the  whole 
scope  of  things,  as  back  of  every  facet  opens  the 
whole  diamond.  She  had  a  drill  for  us  that  I  hold 
to  be  a  good  drill  for  any.  For  half  an  hour  each 
day  she  gave  us  words,  one  at  a  time,  never  more 
than  a  dozen  in  the  half-hour — nouns  and  verbs 
and  adjectives,  later  on,  pronoun  and  adverb,  con 
junction  and  preposition.  There  seemed  no  lesson 
about  it — we  did  not  then  repeat  to  her  what  we 
learned.  We  simply  and  quietly,  in  firelight  or  sun 
light  and  each  for  one's  self,  regarded  the  word 
that  her  deep  voice  gave  out  and  what  it  carried. 
The  game  was  to  see  what  volume  was  there  and 
what  vistas  would  open.  Farmer — soldier — preacher 
— city — house — tree — sugar — salt — earth,  water,  fire, 
and  air — working,  playing,  moving,  resting — truth, 
wisdom,  beauty,  strength,  and  courage — moon, 
earth,  and  sun — hundreds  of  words.  ...  To  our 
young  strength  and  powers  they  expanded  as  they 

54 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

might.  We  saw  countries  within  countries.  And 
we  learned  to  pass  the  first  gate  of  contemplation. 

Again,  myths.  She  had  here  an  extraordinary 
knowledge.  I  have  since  learned  that  there  was  old 
scholarship  in  her  blood.  She  told  world-imaginings, 
world-symbolizations  of  its  own  drama,  as  a  woman 
Homer  might.  Indian,  Chaldean,  Egyptian,  Greek, 
Hebrew,  Scandinavian — we  knew  the  huge  figures, 
localities,  happenings.  Moreover,  she  compared 
them,  linked  them  for  us  until  there  was  a  great 
carcanet.  It  was  not  given  to  our  years  to  see  what 
was  behind  them  all.  But  she  told  us  that  there  was 
something  behind  them  all,  and  that  we  would 
find  it  out  for  ourselves  one  day.  In  the  mean  time 
there  was  huge  entertainment !  We  sat,  rapt,  before 
a  Demeter-like  woman. 

She  taught  us  arithmetic,  put  us  into  algebra,  and 
the  last  year  we  were  w4th  her,  into  geometry.  The 
last  named  was  another  strength.  We  learned  to 
read  French  as  we  did  English  and  to  speak  it  fairly. 
We  read  German.  We  had  little  formal  " Science." 
She  taught  us  the  constellations  and  the  simpler 
sidereal  wonders.  And  we  had  a  clean,  straight, 
honest,  lofty  physiology  with  never  an  organ  or 
function  blue-penciled.  And  here  I  praise  the 
adult  Forths  and  Dallases  who,  in  a  half-century 
that  thought  otherwise,  said,  "Give  it  to  them 
thus." 

Year  after  }Tear  at  Flowerfield.  ...  But  at  last 
there  came  letters  for  Madam  Black  from  Russia. 
An  estate  had  been  settled,  there  was  money — a 
brother  in  poor  health,  in  the  country  near  Moscow, 
longed  to  see  her.  Madam  Black  thought  a  night, 

55 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

then  the  next  day  told  us  she  must  go.  Flowerfield 
grieved  for  that.  ...  It  was  the  springtime.  In 
two  weeks  she  was  gone  to  New  York,  whence  she 
sailed.  For  a  long  time  letters  from  Russia  came  to 
Flowerfield.  But  five  years  after  her  going  she  was 
killed  in  a  railway  accident. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NOW  I  speak  of  Miriam  and  myself  when  we  were 
ten — and  eleven — and  twelve — and  thirteen. 
Even  so,  how  we  can  divide  from  all  the  rest — take 
ourselves  out  of  painting,  canvas  and  frame,  swim 
away,  two  waves  of  the  sea,  rise  and  float  off,  two 
violins,  from  the  orchestra?  The  orchestra  and  the 
sea  and  the  painting,  canvas  and  frame,  are  Miriam 
and  me. 

But  we  still  explain  the  new  by  the  old.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  remember  when,  at  Rest  well  or  Flower- 
field,  I  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  my  cousin 
Miriam.  We  must  have  been  very  young  children. 
Casting  back,  I  have  the  feeling  of  having  been 
always  with  her. 

In  the  days  before  we  went  to  Madam  Black, 
in  the  Flowerfield  Octobers  and  the  Rest  well  Junes, 
it  was  John,  Miriam,  and  I.  And  always,  in  a 
measure,  it  has  been  John,  Miriam,  and  I.  It  was 
so  the  four  years  at  Flowerfield.  But  inside  the 
triangle  she  and  I  paired  with  spontaneity,  vigor, 
and  thoroughness.  The  three  of  us  roamed  together, 
learned,  worked,  and  played  together.  It  was 
brothers  and  sister,  a  simple,  deep  familiarity,  a 
give  and  take,  impersonally  sound.  But  at  last, 
within  the  general  one-and-threeness,  Miriam  and 
I  sat  on  one  throne. 

57 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

She  was  oil  to  my  fire  and  I  was  oil  to  hers.  Our 
flames  shot  up,  blended,  coruscated,  sang.  All 
vases  held  more,  every  color  had  lamps  behind  it, 
every  word  rang  with  a  doubled  power.  Salt,  zest, 
importance,  showered  into  everything  undertaken. 
When  we  were  together  light  penetrated  farther, 
was  intenser — warmth  was  warmer.  .  .  . 

But  now  we  were  children  still.  Yet  we  would 
have  said  in  those  days,  too,  "I  understand  Michael." 
— "I  understand  Miriam." 

We  are  in  the  barn  at  Flowerfield,  in  the  hayloft. 
It  is  Saturday  morning.  There  is  a  fine  rain— 
we  cannot  go  after  walnuts  as  we  had  planned. 
We  lie  in  a  scooped-out  place  in  the  hay.  Around 
us  are  shaggy,  fragrant  walls;  before  us,  one  great 
open  square  through  which  comes  the  moist  air 
and  gray  light,  and  a  dim,  shifting  view  of  autumn 
hills.  The  roof  is  the  peaked  roof  of  a  brown  tent. 
Against  the  beams  are  barn-swallows'  nests,  old 
and  empty.  The  swallows  are  flying  south.  The 
hay  smells  dry  and  sweet.  We  have  wine-sap 
apples  and  the  Arabian  Nights.  John  has,  besides, 
a  piece  of  red,  fragrant  cedar  and  a  jack-knife.  He 
is  making  a  set  of  checkers.  I  am  the  story-teller. 
I  tell  the  story  of  the  " Fisherman  and  the  Genie." 
John  listens,  carving  his  round  checkers.  Miriam, 
half  buried  in  the  hay,  listens.  We  know  all  the 
fat  blue  volume  from  "AH  Baba"  to  "Sinbad." 
We  have  learned  from  Madam  Black  something  of 
how  to  tell  stories.  We  had  rather  tell  them  than 
read  them  from  the  book. 

I  tell.  I  have  told  the  story  before — we  all  know 
it — but  I  am  on  the  spiral  above  the  last  telling, 

58 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

and  the  auditors  are  above  the  last  listening.  And 
it  is  a  good  story-telling  day.  The  genie  comes  out 
of  the  bottle.  "I  see  him,"  says  Miriam,  rising  on 
her  elbow.  (The  audience  always  interrupts,  as 
sists.)  "He  curls  that  way,"  she  demonstrated  with 
her  free  arm.  "Thick  and  smoky!  Round  and 
round  and  up !  He  hides  the  sea. — There's  the  bottle. 
It's  hard  and  round  and  small.  It  looks  like  an  acorn 
under  a  tree." 

John,  whittling,  nodded.  "I  reckon  that  fisher 
man's  frightened!  I  reckon  he's  thinking  he's  let 
out  Satan!" 

"I  tell  you  I  do  see  it!"  said  Miriam.  She  sat 
up,  cross-legged,  tailor  fashion.  Her  hands  rested 
on  her  knees.  "But  I'm  safe!  He  can't  get  me. 
I'm  everywhere." 

"If  you're  everywhere  you're  right  where  the 
genie  is.  You're  fc*m,"  said  John.  "You're  just 
seeing  yourself." 

The  fisherman  and  the  genie  argue  together. 
The  fisherman  seems  about  to  meet  destruction. 
Then  his  wits  work  and  he  gets  the  genie  back 
into  the  bottle.  When  he  lets  him  out  again  he 
is  a  reasonable  quantity,  a  harnessed  energy.  He 
takes  the  fisherman  into  the  apparent  desert  where 
is  the  strange  pool  in  the  midst  of  barrenness.  The 
fisherman,  having  the  clue  to  wealth,  goes  fishing 
and  takes  four  fish,  white,  red,  blue,  and  yellow. 

Miriam's  voice  rises  again.  "I  see  them.  I  know 
their  names:  Mussulman,  Parsee,  Christian,  Jew!" 

John  again  answers.  "Of  course  you  know  them! 
If  you  didn't  know  the  story,  and  then  knew  them, 
that  would  be  something!" 

59 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

"I  couldn't  know  them  unless  I  knew  them.  How 
could  I?  But  I  know  them  higher  and  deeper  and 
faster  and  louder.  I  know  them  like  that!"  She 
began  to  clap  her  hands  together.  "Mussulman, 
Parsee,  Christian,  Jew!" 

"Now  he  takes  them  to  the  Sultan,"  directed 
John.  I  continue  to  tell  the  story  and  we  go  on 
to  the  King  of  the  Black  Isles  who  was  half  man  and 
half  marble.  .  .  .  The  barn  and  the  slanting  rain  and 
the  warmth  and  the  fragrance  of  the  hay,  the  smell 
of  the  cedar,  the  taste  of  the  wine-saps  leave  the 
screen. 

It  is  March.  The  robins  are  here.  The  plowed 
earth  pleases  them.  The  maples  are  fire-tipped, 
the  bloodroot  blooms.  A  roaring  wind  goes  around 
the  house  and  shakes  the  trees.  There  is  a  swing 
fastened  to  a  great  outstretching  bough  of  the  tulip- 
tree.  The  bough  is  high,  the  ropes  of  the  swing  are 
long,  the  board  is  wide.  Miriam  and  I  stand  here, 
swinging.  We  have  gotten  a  great  start,  we  go 
higher  and  higher,  we  bend  together,  rise  together, 
the  wind  is  in  our  hair.  We  go  up,  we  go  out,  the 
leaves  swirl  up  after  us,  we  are  as  high  as  the  high 
windows.  We  are  drawn  back,  we  rush  forward, 
high,  high.  The  wind  is  strong  about  us,  there  is 
delight,  there  is  thrill!  We  shut  our  eyes.  The 
swing  seems  to  have  left  the  tulip-tree.  We  seem 
to  be  going  away,  away,  through  the  air.  We  are 
high  as  a  cloud  and  far  as  the  mountains.  Flower- 
field  quits  us — we  are  in  the  air — there  is  not  even 
the  swing.  We  are  birds  flying. . . .  We  are  one  bird, 
flyingj  great -winged.  The  space  we  are  in  cracks 
wide.  There  is  other  space.  We  feel  exhilaration 

60 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

that  becomes  a  pounding  thrill,  a  huge  chord  vibra 
tion.  Some  one  calls  us  from  the  house.  We  come 
back.  We  are  swinging  high,  that  is  all,  up  and  out, 
but  locked  still  to  the  tulip-tree. 

It  is  yet  March,  and  cold,  with  a  sudden  spear 
from  the  north.  There  is  a  great  wood  fire  in  the 
school-room,  burning  at  dusk.  Miriam  and  I  sit 
on  two  hassocks,  on  either  side  the  hearth,  watch 
ing  the  fire.  Catherine  and  Lewis  are  in  the  room, 
but  they  seem  to  be  quiet.  John  sprawls  on  the 
hearth-rug,  reading  Ivanhoe.  Madam  Black,  in  the 
parlor,  two  rooms  away,  is  playing  Beethoven. 
Miriam  and  I  sit  very  still.  The  fire.  .  .  .  Pine  feeds 
it.  The  flames  bend,  roar  together,  rise  superb. 
Suddenly,  again,  as  in  the  swing,  Miriam  and  I 
flow  into  one.  The  "she"  and  "I,"  the  "twoness," 
come  into  "weness."  But  the  "weness"  itself — and 
that  is  the  increase — springs  into  a  new  "Iness." 
Something,  flashing  together,  uses  the  "twoness," 
but  as  we  use  arms  or  hands.  More  than  that,  the 
very  room  comes  in.  The  fire,  the  logs  that  burn, 
the  forest  just  behind  them — the  walls  and  the  fur 
niture — Catherine  and  Lewis  by  the  window,  John 
and  Madam  Black  come  in.  The  music  comes  in. 
It  is  quite  simple,  but  very  satisfying.  Catherine 
and  Lewis,  by  the  window,  fall  out  over  their  box 
of  colors.  And  there  is  again  the  school-room  fire, 
and  Miriam  and  Michael  sitting  upon  hassocks. 

It  is  the  same  springtime.  We  are  thirteen. 
Madam  Black  is  going.  Presently  I  shall  return 
to  Rest  well.  October  will  come,  but  it  will  not  bring 
me  to  Flowerfield.  I  am  going  to  Hilltop  Academy, 
in  Whitechurch.  That  is  an  old  school,  reconstituted, 

61 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

invigorated,  said  to  be  full  of  promise.  John  is 
going,  too.  He  will  live  at  Restwell  as  I  have  lived 
at  Flowerfield.  The  old  South  is  behind  us,  and 
around  us  are  the  middle  'seventies.  Miriam's 
going  to  school  is  of  less  importance  than  is  John's. 
She  will  have  lessons  at  home  with  Aunt  Kate.  In 
a  year  or  two,  perhaps,  she  may  go  to  Richmond,  to 
a  school  there,  staying  with  the  Warringers. 

There  is  a  hillside  of  dark  trees,  white  pine  and 
hemlock,  sloping  steeply  to  a  brook  that  here  pro 
ceeds  with  a  deep,  sliding  stillness,  and  here  plunges 
from  ledge  to  ledge  like  a  white-maned  water- 
steed.  John,  Miriam,  and  I  come  to  this  place. 
We  have  been  gathering  wake-robins  on  the  other 
side  the  hill,  where  there  is  a  sunnier  wood.  Then 
we  pass  around  the  shoulder  to  the  shaded  side, 
cool  and  old.  We  sit  down  on  the  brown-scented 
earth,  clean  save  for  a  mat  of  needles  and  fallen 
cones.  We  have  great  bunches  of  the  wake-robins, 
the  pink  and  the  white.  We  put  them  down  on 
the  cool  earth  in  the  deep  shade.  John  and  I  are 
going  to  Restwell  in  a  week.  Meantime  the  three 
of  us  are  pursuing  one  of  our  inner  travels.  We  lift, 
at  will,  from  the  great  book  and  reservoir  of  other- 
selves,  compagnons  de  voyage.  Our  present  scene 
is  set  in  the  island  of  the  Swiss  Family  Robinson. 
But  the  characters  who  figure  are  from  other  prov 
inces.  Ourselves  of  course,  Uncas  from  The  Last 
of  the  Mohicans;  Gurth  from  Ivanhoe;  a  Knight  and 
a  Lady,  first  found  in  the  Faery  Queen;  Ariel,  Oberon, 
and  Titania;  and  Ulysses  the  Greek  wanderer.  I 
think,  to-day,  that  it  is  a  good  choice  and  suited  to 
an  isle  of  all  climes  and  products. 

62 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

We  take  up  our  adventures  where  we  left  them, 
over  the  hilltop.  They  have  their  reality — the 
reality  of  music,  of  dream,  of  play,  of  lacework,  of 
dance,  of  art.  Our  bodies  rest  under  the  pine-trees, 
but  the  image-making  self  has  swooped  to  the  island. 
There  we  follow  Uncas  through  a  wood  that  spreads 
as  far  and  climbs  as  high  as  we  desire.  Uncas 
finds  directions,  Gurth  fells  the  trees.  Ulysses — 
and  we — make  whatever  plan  there  lies  ahead; 
Uriel,  with  moth  wings,  flies  beside  us — but  Oberon 
and  Titania  only  look  out  doubtfully  from  ferny 
recesses.  We  are  making  a  road  for  the  Knight  and 
the  Lady.  Eventually  we  mean  to  build  a  castle — 
seven  castles,  like  those  the  King  of  China  built 
for  his  daughter.  When  we  need  to  expand  the  island 
we  expand  it.  When  we  need  more  and  different 
persons,  hey,  presto!  in  they  tumble!  Oh,  life  of 
Uncas  and  of  Gurth — life  of  Ariel — life  of  Ulysses 
— life  of  the  Knight  and  the  Lady ! 


CHAPTER  VII 

JOHN  and  I  went  to  Restwell.  I  cannot  say  that 
I  missed  Miriam,  for  I  seemed  to  take  Miriam 
with  me.  I  missed  the  others  at  Flowerfield. 

But  Restwell  was  most  dear  to  me.  I  loved 
mother  and  grandfather  and  Aunt  Sarah,  Daddy 
Guinea,  Mammy,  Ahasuerus,  and  the  rest,  the  ani 
mals  and  the  trees  and  the  house,  and  every  other 
aspect.  I  loved  the  graveyard  and  the  bank  going 
down  to  the  river,  and  the  river  itself.  John  knew 
all  the  haunts,  but  now  he  learned  them  better 
with  me. 

What  my  grandfather  had  not  read  in  these  four 
years  I  do  not  know.  Colonel  Forth's  pecuniary 
affairs  were  yet  shot  with  strain  and  difficulty. 
But  somehow — and  I  know  here  how  greatly  my 
mother  helped  him — he  managed  to  pay  the  interest 
on  the  mortgage.  The  old  Restwell  shelter  sheltered 
still.  Around  him  the  affairs  of  the  South  were 
slowly  bettering.  The  war  was  no  longer  blindingly, 
thunderously  present.  It  had  changed  its  shape, 
lowered  its  voice.  Its  boulder  weight  was  become 
spread  sand.  It  was  always  there,  always  would 
be  there.  You  could  as  little  kill  the  war  as  kill 
anything  else.  On  thundered  the  long  freight-train 
stacked  with  effects.  At  every  station  something 

64 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

was  deposited.  But  also  other  unkillable  things 
breathed  on,  such  as  man's  ineradicable  hope  of 
understanding  all,  of  enjoying  all,  of  being  all. 

My  grandfather  looked  older  and  gentler.  He 
was  busy  all  day  with  a  thousand  active,  patient 
adjustments.  But  after  supper,  by  lamplight,  until 
almost  midnight,  he  read.  He  had  found  his  way 
to  Jacob  Boehme,  to  Spinoza,  to  Blake. 

My  aunt  Sarah  read  less,  I  thought,  than  she  used 
to  do — less,  that  is,  in  books.  Remembering,  I  am 
aware,  by  the  now  stronger  light,  that  she  had  turned 
to  that  inner  library,  greater  than  any  housed  col 
lection.  There  two  and  two,  in  a  thousand  places, 
came  together  and  made  four. 

My  mother  burned,  as  always,  a  light,  a  warmth, 
fed  steadily  by  a  willing  sacrifice.  She  herself  went 
with  joy  into  the  fire  of  herself. 

Oh,  Restwell,  and  all  that  made  Restwell! 

John  and  I,  in  good  and  bad  weather,  walked  to 
Whitechurch  and  walked  home  again.  Hilltop 
Academy  rose  at  the  edge  of  town.  The  distance 
was  nothing  to  strong  youths,  country  bred.  We 
carried  our  books  and  our  dinner.  The  many  and 
many  things  that  along  the  way  we  ruminated, 
debated!  All  the  way  there  and  the  way  back 
again,  the  two  hundred  and  odd  school-days  in  each 
year,  three  years  on  end!  There  are  trees  that  rise 
in  memory  hung  with  talk  as  with  fruit. 

Hilltop  Academy,  brick,  long  and  gaunt,  had  the 
luck  to  have  gathered  about  it  a  dozen  really  splendid 
cedars.  Except  for  these  its  hill  was  a  somewhat 
bare  and  windy  one.  As  each  morning  we  approached 
it  we  might  see  the  boys  running,  jumping,  playing 

65 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

ball,  or  knotted  together — the  younger  ones — over 
marbles.  In  memory  a  wind  seems  always  to  blow. 
Sometimes  snow  falls.  There  is  a  high,  shifting 
veil,  and  it  and  the  boys  are  all  of  a  piece.  Boarding 
pupils  and  town  and  country  pupils,  there  were  not 
far  from  a  hundred  boys.  Out  of  this  number  a 
score  made  our  group.  Out  of  this  group  two  or 
three  pressed  closer.  They  and  John  and  I  heard 
very  nearly  the  same  sounds.  One  of  them,  Gamaliel 
Young,  came  closer  than  the  others. 

The  principal  of  the  academy  was  his  father,  Dr. 
Abner  Young. 

I  would  say  at  once  that  Doctor  Young  was 
estimable.  There  was  even  about  him  a  kind  of 
sweetness,  some  errant  fragrance,  some  spice  lurk 
ing  beneath  fold  after  fold  of  mummy  linen.  His 
archaic  rigidity  of  line  was  not  without  distinc 
tion.  .  .  .  Lot's  wife  looked  back,  remembered  too 
exclusively  the  plain — the  plane — that  must  be 
left,  and  became  a  pillar  of  salt.  Salt  preserves. 
Where  it  is  too  abundant  green  things  do  not  grow. 
She  loved  the  past  not  wisely,  but  too  well.  Yet 
love  is  love  and  covereth  a  multitude.  And  little 
by  little,  doubtless,  age  by  age,  the  rain  and  the 
wind  and  the  fire  undid  the  form. 

Hilltop  Academy  employed  a  number  of  teachers. 
But  Doctor  Young  kept  in  his  own  hands  Greek  and 
Latin,  history  and  English.  In  the  letter  of  the 
languages  he  taught  well.  In  the  letter  of  history 
and  of  the  literature  of  England  he  had  knowledge. 
But  he  was  mineralized,  and  what  he  did  and  what 
he  gave  partook  of  that  quality.  An  honest  min 
eral,  with  mineral  beauty. 

66 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Each  morning,  at  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  occurred  a 
Scripture  reading,  a  short  homily,  a  prayer.  Doctor 
Young  read,  expounded,  prayed.  The  hundred 
boys  sat  as  still  as  they  could.  Sometimes  something 
caught  them,  oftener  nothing.  It  was  a  mill-wheel 
turning.  One  must  feel  reverential  when  one  sat 
by  the  mill-race  and  the  wheel  began  to  turn.  But 
the  wheat  in  the  hopper  very  rarely  indeed  made  any 
connection  with  one's  own  private  oven.  (Doubt 
less,  now  I  think  of  it,  that  was  because  the  oven 
was  not  large  enough.)  The  mill-wheel  stopped, 
the  church  feeling  flew  away,  out  trooped  the  hun 
dred  boys  into  the  big,  bare,  echoing  hall. 

Each  Wednesday,  at  two  in  the  afternoon,  Doctor 
Young  lectured.  He  made  these  talks  into  occasions. 
They  took  place  in  the  assembly-hall.  The  smallest 
boys  were  excused,  but  the  rest  of  us  sat  in  solemn 
rows  with  clean  hands  and  smoothed  hair.  All  the 
teachers  were  there,  seated  where  they  might  ob 
serve  both  us  and  the  principal.  It  happened — it 
grew  by  degrees  into  settled  custom — that  friends 
of  the  academy,  of  Doctor  Young,  leading  citizens 
of  Whitechurch,  seeking  culture,  came  to  these 
Wednesday  talks.  There  was  always  a  little  block 
of  comfortable  chairs,  filled  from  Whitechurch. 
Ladies  and  gentlemen  both  attended.  They  seemed 
to  think  it  necessary  to  listen  very  closely,  to  nod 
their  heads  at  regular  intervals.  They  did  not  ap 
plaud,  because  it  seemed  too  much  like  church 
and  the  Word  of  God.  I  have  forgotten  to  say  that 
in  his  early  manhood  Doctor  Young  had  been  a 
minister.  He  believed  with  intensity  that  he  still 
ministered  to  souls. 

67 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

The  least  of  the  Wednesday  talks  lasted  half  an 
hour.  I  have  known  them  to  run  over  the  hour. 
He  spoke  well,  without  a  ragged  edge,  without  a 
sign  of  indefiniteness,  and  always  as  one  having 
authority.  He  had  a  thin,  severe  enthusiasm,  very 
far  from  unction,  but  carrying  over.  Unwavering 
belief  in  one's  own  revelation  cannot  but  do  it. 
He  was  the  Apostle  of  the  Status  quo  Ante. 

Gamaliel  sat  with  John  and  me  and  fidgeted. 
This  father  and  son  loved  each  other,  but  it  was  love 
dashed  with  profound  care  and  dissent.  Doctor 
Young  felt  the  impatience  in  the  corner.  His  eyes 
darted  over.  I  remember  more  than  once  or  twice 
in  the  sequence  of  Wednesdays  a  pause,  a  "Keep 
order  there !"  I  remember  an  angry  ' '  Gamaliel " ! 

Gamaliel  broke  off  his  absent-minded  drumming 
upon  the  desk  before  him.  He  sat  up  and  looked 
at  the  speaker.  The  father  looked  back.  Struggle 
was  in  the  air.  "You  will  break  from  me!" — "I 
am  breaking  from  you!" — "Yet  you  are  me!" — 
"Yet  I  will  carry  you  with  me — Anchises  on  ^Eneas's 
shoulders!"  There  were,  of  course,  no  such  articu 
late  words. 

These  Wednesday  discourses  varied  as  to  subject. 
Doctor  Young  was  intensely  interested  in  keeping 
the  world  good — in  salting  it  down,  so  to  speak. 
To  do  this  one  must  be  active  and  wary  on  all  sides. 
Weeds  would  grow!  But  he  would  do  what  he  could 
to  fix  the  soil  in  the  young  minds  before  him. 
Specifically  and  sharply  to  fix  it  in  Gamaliel's  mind. 
There  was  jealousy  of  Gamaliel.  He  must  not 
take  the  Inheritance  and  riot  with  it. 

The  Inheritance  was  stored  in  treasure-houses 

68 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

labeled  Religion — Political  Life — Economics — Sci 
ence — Arts  and  Letters.  Doctor  Young  stood  before 
the  door  of  each  and  expounded  how  all  things  must 
be  kept  and  polished. 

He  was  a  strict  disciplinarian.  The  younger  boys 
— the  little  fellows — came  in,  not  infrequently,  for 
corporal  punishment.  Gamaliel  was  not  among  the 
younger  boys.  But  out  of  school,  in  the  father's 
bare  study,  he  might  yet  taste  the  whip.  It  was 
not  often,  and  this  mode  of  dealing  with  him  ceased 
before  he  was  fifteen.  And  no  doubt  Doctor  Young 
prayed  afterward  a  quarter  of  the  night. 

I  speak  as  though  I  did  not  like  the  pillar  of  salt. 
But  I  did.  There  were  yearnings  and  sincerity, 
and  an  Egyptian  moonlight  of  old  beauty,  and  great 
willingness  to  be  kind  if  only  we  would  stay  within 
bounds ! 

I  hear  him  now  upon  the  mad — that  was  a  great 
word  with  him — the  mad  attempt,  originating  in 
England,  to  undermine  the  Christian  Religion.  He 
withered  with  irony  Messrs.  Darwin,  Huxley,  Spen 
cer,  and  Tyndall.  Hilltop  Academy  must  sooner 
or  later  go  forth  into  the  world.  He  would  arm 
its  units  against  insidious  modernity!  He  pro 
ceeded  to  arm  us.  I  remember  that  Mr.  Millwood 
was  among  those  from  the  town  who  was  present 
that  day.  I  see  now  the  big  head  and  shoulders 
vibrating  assent.  The  flaying  of  the  evolutionists 
lasted  an  hour. 

Again  political  economy.  Doctor  Young  gave  up 
the  divine  right  of  kings,  but  quite  subtly  and 
passionately  inculcated  divine  right  of  class.  He 
was  devoted  to  the  point  of  romance  to  class, 

69 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

order,  hierarchy,  successiveness.  How  feudal,  rea 
sonable,  logical  he  was! 

Out  of  his  numerous  " literary"  talks  I  recall  most 
plainly  that  upon  " Paradise  Lost.'1  He  labored 
Shakespeare,  but  he  loved  Milton.  I  remember, 
too,  a  scorching  warning  away  from  most  modern 
novels,  poems,  and  other  works  —  "modern"  and 
highly  explosive,  that  is,  in  1876,  to  country-living 
folk.  George  Eliot  was  armed  against  no  less 
than  George  Sand.  A  young  poet  then  writing, 
named  Swinburne  we  must  never  touch!  There 
were  qualities  in  Browning,  but  also  dangerous 
heresies,  to  say  nothing  of  impossible  style.  The 
evolutionists — how  few  were  untainted  by  the  evo 
lutionists!  Coming  to  our  own  country,  Mr.  Emer 
son  was  undoubtedly  able,  but  could  be  followed 
only  a  little  way  and  through  careful  selection. 
Bryant,  Longfellow,  and  Whittier  were  safe.  Mr. 
Millwood,  who  was  again  among  the  listeners,  shook 
his  head,  remembering  utterances  "against  the 
South." 

But  Doctor  Young  differed  here  from  Mr.  Mill 
wood.  It  was  not  the  South  that  he  thought  of, 
but  the  moral  nationality.  ...  I  think  of  him  as  a 
kind  of  Switzerland,  shot  up  high  from  a  narrow  base. 

Gamaliel  had  a  stub  of  a  pencil  and  the  back  of 
a  long  envelop  and  was  drawing  while  his  father 
talked.  He  drew  a  man  reading  and  made  the 
figure  look  like  himself.  The  book  held  in  both 
hands  was  quite  large.  The  pencil  hesitated,  then 
printed  on  the  cover,  SWINBURNE.  He  next  stood 
on  end  around  the  reader  a  number  of  volumes,  the 
back  of  each  of  which  he  proceeded  to  letter.  GEORGE 

70 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

SAND — GEORGE  ELIOT — EMERSON — DARWIN.  There 
was  just  a  tremor,  then  the  pencil  added  INGERSOLL. 

Now  I  know  Gamaliel,  and  he  was  not  in  the  least 
trying  to  be  " smart."  Father  and  son  were  alike 
in  dead  earnest. 

In  the  late  summer,  just  before  the  beginning 
of  my  second  year  at  Hilltop,  I  met  with  an  accident. 
A  colt  that  I  was  breaking  threw  me  and  broke  my 
ankle.  It  was  set  and  healed,  but  for  a  long  time 
was  weak.  Doctor  Gilbert  said  that  I  must  not 
walk  each  day  to  and  from  Whitechurch.  It  ended 
in  my  becoming,  from  October  to  Christmas,  one 
of  the  boarding  boys. 

Mrs.  Young  was  an  invalid.  She  lay  on  a  sofa 
and  looked  with  dark,  hollow  eyes  at  some  inner 
pageant.  The  house  where  ate  and  slept  and  for 
gathered  twenty  boys,  under  the  eyes  of  four  teach 
ers  and  of  Doctor  Young,  was  kept  by  two  maiden 
sisters,  cousins  of  the  principal.  It  was  well  kept 
after  our  easy-going  Southern  fashion.  The  teach 
ers  were  intelligent  and  good  -  natured,  the  two 
maiden  sisters  amiable,  maternally-minded  women. 
Every  one  intended  kindness.  It  was  a  pretty  fair 
home.  The  twenty  boys  slept  in  four  rooms.  I 
had  the  luck  to  be  with  Gamaliel.  Moreover,  two 
out  of  the  five  in  our  room  went  home  in  November 
upon  some  contingency.  The  remaining  one  was  a 
"little  fellow"  of  whom  we  were  fond  and  who  had 
the  good  habit  of  going  to  sleep  immediately  upon 
getting  into  bed.  Gamaliel  and  I  could  talk  till  late. 

But  I  do  not  speak  now  of  the  lasting  nearness  of 
Gamaliel  and  me.  With  John  and  Miriam  he  came 
near.  We  were  countrymen,  though  Miriam  and 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

I  were  more  closely  countrymen  than  any.  But  we 
were  all  of  one  language.  Gamaliel  spoke  it  with 
poignancy  and  thrill,  differing  there  from  John's 
long,  slow  waves,  quiet  and  massive. 

Whitechurch  rambled  around  the  foot  of  Doctor 
Young's  hill  like  a  pleasant  trailing  vine,  then  went 
up  and  down  and  over  a  hill  of  its  own.  The  spire 
of  St.  Matthew's,  the  spires  of  the  Presbyterian, 
Baptist,  and  Methodist  churches,  leaned  against 
the  sky.  The  square  old  court-house  held  its  place. 
There  was  Garth's  Hotel  with  its  row  of  horse- 
chestnuts  edging  the  brick  pavement,  pleasant  for 
men's  souls  who  wished  to  loaf.  The  Bank  was 
found  retired  behind  a  sycamore  beneath  which 
Indians  may  have  lighted  council  fires.  Up  and  down 
the  High  Street  signs  guided  to  stores  where  gen 
eral  merchandise  was  bought  and  sold.  White- 
church  expected  a  railroad,  but  as  yet  only  ex 
pected  it.  A  ramshackle  stage  left  Garth's  in 
the  morning  light  and  returned  in  the  evening. 
Folk  looked  out  of  window  or  stopped  upon  the 
sidewalk  to  see  it  pass,  with  or  without  passengers. 
"There's  the  stage!"  Back  from  the  High  Street, 
down  short  ways  named  for  pioneers,  Indian  fighters, 
and  Colonial  governors,  along  Washington  Street 
that  paralleled  High  Street,  gathered  the  homes, 
brick  and  frame,  large  and  small,  each  a  unit  com 
pounded  of  units,  a  person  synthesizing  persons — as 
Whitechurch  was  a  person,  and  the  county  a  person, 
and  the  state  a  person,  and  the  country  a  person, 
and  the  world  a  person.  Most  of  the  houses  had 
gardens,  large  or  small.  In  the  spring  there  bloomed 
old  shrubs,  bowery  and  fragrant,  lilac  and  snowball 

72 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

and  syringa  and  weigelia.  And  there  were  trees  and 
again  trees,  so  many  that  in  June  the  place  grew 
leafy  and  sang  like  a  forest. 

Whatever  there  had  been  before  the  war,  or  might 
be  in  the  future,  the  present  Whitechurch  had  ex 
ceedingly  little  money.  Just  in  these  years  the 
whole  country,  North  and  South,  knew  financial 
depression.  Inflation  met  Nemesis  in  the  road. 
Whitechurch  was  poor,  but  Whitechurch  prided 
itself  upon  its  ability  to  rise  above  what  it 
called  "material  considerations."  Mr.  Millwood 
was  a  good  leader  here,  and  Doctor  Young  likewise, 
and  four  or  five  other  estimable  figures,  men  and 
women,  whom  I  see  now  through  a  mist  of  laughing 
and  liking.  There  was  plenty  of  grit  in  Whitechurch. 
It  prided  itself  upon  its  sense  of  values,  religious, 
esthetic,  and  social. 

Ten  of  the  Hilltop  boarding  pupils  were  boys 
above  fourteen.  Out  of  this  number  the  principal 
saw  sparks  of  promise  in  at  least  five.  And  there 
were  the  boarding  teachers  who  should,  who  must, 
give  scholastic  distinction  to  the  cultural  life  of 
Whitechurch.  The  principal  himself  felt  the  weight 
of  his  responsibility.  Doctor  Young,  the  four  board 
ing  teachers,  the  five  boys  that  scintillated  and  the 
five  that  were  supposed  to  be  deader  coals,  at 
tended  in  a  body  the  fortnightly  meetings  of  the 
Whitechurch  Literary  and  Debating  Society.  When 
there  were  concerts  we  went;  when  there  came  to 
town  stray  lecturers  (if  Doctor  Young  approved  their 
subjects)  we  went.  Twice  or  thrice  when  there  were 
passionate  political  harangues  (Democratic)  we  went. 
Each  summer  and  each  winter  each  church  had  a  sup- 

73 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

per  or  festival  or  lawn  party.  The  Women's  Mite 
Society  or  the  Women's  Missionary  Society  made, 
collected,  and  sold  good  things  to  eat.  We  went  to 
these  fund-raising  church  affairs.  And  of  course  we 
went  to  church.  There  Hilltop  divided.  Episcopa 
lians  went  to  St.  Matthew's,  Presbyterians  to  Doc 
tor  Baird's  church,  Baptists  to  the  Baptist  church, 
Methodists  to  the  Methodist  church.  We  had  no 
Catholics  nor  Quakers,  nor  Unitarians,  nor  other 
sectarians.  Church-going  was  not  conceived  of  as 
among  cultural  activities.  It  was  a  flat  command  of 
God.  Commands  of  God  were  outside  of  question  or 
modification  and  outside  of  comparison  with  other 
activities.  I  discussed  this  with  Gamaliel.  "Then 
something  acts  besides  God?"  He  answered.  "Of 
course!  Don't  you  know  your  devil?"  We  went  to 
Sunday-school  and  were  in  Doctor  Young's  class, 
and  heard  there  indeed  of  a  fearful  devil.  .  .  .  Only 
— only — he  linked  on  so  beautifully  to  the  devil 
Mandy 's  Jim  believed  in !  He  was  a  devil  of  physical 
terror — but,  even  so,  of  grotesque  terror! 

For  all  the  devil  that  it  talked  about  Whitechurch, 
•  s  a  whole,  was  of  a  sunny  temperament.  Evils 
were  there,  shadows  of  ignorance  and  weakness, 
ancient  falsehoods,  lusts,  vanities,  arrogances,  and 
angers.  But  it  wanted  to  do  right,  it  wanted  to 
grow.  Gamaliel  wanted  that,  and  I  wanted  that, 
and  Doctor  Young  and  Mr.  Millwood,  and  Mrs. 
Young  upon  her  sofa,  and  the  maiden  cousins,  and 
Aunt  Ailsy  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  teachers  and  the 
loafers  about  Garth's  Hotel,  and  all  the  townsfolk, 
those  who  had  more  momentum  and  those  who  had 
less,  souls  ripening,  and  souls  green  and  crude. 

74 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ONCE  in  a  long  while  there  came  to  Whitechurch 
the  drama.  In  those  days  stock  companies 
in  dilution,  shadows  of  the  shadows  of  metropolitan 
companies,  might  be  met  with  traveling,  might  at 
times  be  regarded  upon  extemporized  stages  in  the 
smaller  towns  and  larger  villages  of  the  country. 
Such  a  one  came  to  Whitechurch  and  played  in 
the  big  room  of  Garth's  Hotel.  An  ambitious 
shadow,  it  opened  its  three  nights'  course  with 
"  Midsummer  Night's  Dream." 

Doctor  Young  permitted  us  to  go.  He  went  him 
self  with  the  four  teachers. 

The  advertisements  promised  "a  classic  per 
formance."  The  Clarion,  the  weekly  paper  published 
in  a  neighboring  town,  said  that  the  actors  were  of 
somewhat  extraordinary  goodness  and  that  none 
should  miss  the  performance.  And  Shakespeare  is 
always  Shakespeare.  The  best  of  Whitechurch 
prepared  to  go.  Such  was  the  bruit  and  rumor  that 
folk  were  coming  in  from  the  country.  Fortunately 
the  room  at  Garth's  was  really  big,  as  big  as  a  barn, 
as  big  as  an  ordinary  hall.  Of  old  it  had  been  used 
for  political  gatherings  and  the  like.  There  was  a 
platform  with  small  rooms  opening  upon  it,  and 
floor  space  and  rows  of  benches. 

75 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

John,  appearing  at  Hilltop  that  morning,  brought 
news  that  grandfather  and  my  mother  were  coming 
in.  There  had  not  been  a  play  in  Whitechurch  for 
a  long  time,  certainly  not  Shakespeare.  John  would 
stay  in  town,  would  indeed,  at  Doctor  Young's  in 
vitation,  return  to  Hilltop  after  the  play  and  spend 
the  night  with  Gamaliel  and  me. 

All  that  day  it  was  exciting  to  think  of  Garth's 
big  room  being  turned  into  a  theater — exciting  to 
envisage  the  company  at  Garth's.  Forth  goes  Im 
agination,  questing  his  livelihood! 

Evening  came.  Eight  of  the  boys  at  Hilltop  had 
tickets  and  were  going.  Doctor  Young  would  shep 
herd  us  down. 

He  did  so;  Gamaliel,  John,  and  I  at  the  tail  of 
the  string.  The  night,  I  remember,  was  full  of 
stars,  magnificent,  Decemberish.  The  air  seemed 
to  rise  on  tiptoe,  thrill,  rise  again,  thrill.  .  .  . 

Once  in  the  High  Street  we  meet  with  people,  set 
in  a  stream,  going  to  Garth's.  The  old  hotel  seems 
to  blaze,  perhaps  it  does  blaze,  perhaps  it  is  only 
our  spirits!  We  hear  voices  of  men  and  voices  of 
women,  talking,  laughing,  thrilling,  expectant.  We 
enter  the  big  room  and  see  that  Shakespeare  will 
have  an  audience. 

So  full  was  the  place  that  Doctor  Young's  flock 
could  not  be  herded  together.  Gamaliel  and  John 
and  I  found  ourselves  upon  a  bench  remote  from  the 
remainder  of  Hilltop.  Ladies  entered  by  the  door 
near  us  and  could  not  find  seats.  We  gave  them 
ours  and  removed  to  the  broad  window-sill.  So 
much  the  better!  We  perceived  that  we  were  going 
to  be  able  to  see  splendidly. 

76 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

We  looked  first  at  the  curtain,  that  was  of  some 
dark  stuff,  and,  to  the  heightened  fancy,  wide  and 
high.  A  row  of  lamps  burned  before  it,  shaded  on 
our  side,  bright  toward  the  stage  that  would  presently 
be  revealed.  Ah!  what  mysteries  behind  it  all, 
what  delight,  what  warm  adventure — ! 

We  were  none  too  early.  This  side  the  lamps  a 
piano  and  two  violins  and  a  horn  were  getting  ready. 
It  was  a  stately  company,  that  had  seen  better 
days,  that  once  would  have  smiled  and  passed  by 
Whitechurch. 

The  great  room  was  warm  and  packed  with  men 
and  women  and  not  a  few  children.  Young  men  and 
young  women  predominated.  But  all  the  leading 
citizens  were  here,  all  save  those  who  would  not  go 
to  the  theater — even  if  it  was  Shakespeare! 

Colonel  Forth  and  my  mother  came  in.  A  man 
rose  and  beckoned  and  they  found  a  place  beside 
the  Beech  wood  Corbins  and  the  Mt.  Pleasant 
Byrds.  They  were  at  a  distance  from  our  window, 
but  almost  immediately  my  mother  saw  me,  and 
then  my  grandfather.  We  touched  in  the  face  of 
"  space. " 

The  piano,  the  violins,  and  the  horn  began. 
There  seemed  a  start,  a  thrill  in  the  curtain's  self. 
I  thrilled,  and  John  and  Gamaliel.  One  wave  broke 
against  the  three  of  us,  perched  in  the  deep  window. 
Piano  and  violin;  now  the  horn — Greek  horns — 
hunting-horns  of  Theseus! 

The  curtain  parted. 

Undoubtedly  this  company  stood  above  the  kind 
that  was  wont  to  play  in  villages.  It  was  no  worse 
off  for  scenery  than  was  the  sixteenth  century  when 

77 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

the  Mermaid  Tavern  went  to  plays.  Greek  cos 
tumes  are  easily  managed — fairy  dress,  no  less. 

Theseus  speaks.  It  begins.  .  .  .  Theseus,  Hermia, 
Demetrius,  Bottom,  and  the  fairy  king  and  queen 
are  well  played — the  others  more  so-so.  But  it  is  all 
good  enough;  it  answers.  It  is  delicate,  fine  drama. 

The  room  and  the  stage  grow  one.  We  desire, 
will,  and  act  in  England — Athens,  ever  old  and  ever 
new!  It  is  delicate,  upper-key  drama.  We  are  not  split 
into  violent  partizanships.  We  can  like,  we  can 
hold  them  all.  We  even  find  Bottom  within,  not 
without  us. 

Varying  applications  are  made,  similitudes  seen. 
When  Egeus  complains  against  his  child,  cries  that 
she  is  his,  that  he  may,  can,  and  will  rule  her  desti 
nies,  I  know  that  Gamaliel  shoots  a  thought  across 
to  Doctor  Young.  John  likes  the  whole,  but  he 
shakes  all  over  when  the  Athenian  "rude  mechan 
icals"  play.  So  with  all  others  present.  There  are 
individual  linkings-up.  But  the  whole  comes  under 
our  skin — fairies  and  all. 

There  is  rhythm  in  the  big  room.  Forth  and 
return,  forth  and  return,  with  a  soft,  powerful, 
piston  beat.  .  .  . 

"Midsummer  Night's  Dream"  goes  on — "Mid 
summer  Night's  Dream"  comes  to  an  end.  At  least, 
the  woolen  curtain  draws  to;  the  violins  slip  into 
their  cases.  Whitechurch,  after  liberal  applause,  is 
on  its  feet,  is  going  out.  It  must  be  over — but  I 
doubted  it,  even  then. 

I  greet  mother  and  grandfather.  My  ankle  is  as 
strong  as  ever.  I  am  going  home  before  Christmas. 
There  is  in  grandfather's  and  in  my  mother's  eyes 

78 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

the  same  look  of  distance  and  width  that  I  feel  in 
my  own.  I  note  the  tranquil  measure  in  their 
voices,  deep  on  deep,  perspective.  They  are  in 
Whitechurch,  but  they  are  also  in  the  wood  that 
neighbors  Athens — and  in  other  woods. 

I  have  never  questioned  the  literalness  of  being 
there.  I  was  there,  as  also,  certainly,  here.  The 
there  and  here  stood  on  a  level.  It  seemed  that 
there  was  a  largeness  that  held  them  both. 

Gamaliel  and  John  and  I  walked  to  Hilltop  under 
the  stars.  Doctor  Young  and  the  others  came  on 
some  distance  behind  us.  We  had  half  a  mile  to  go. 
The  night  was  high  and  starry,  cold  and  still.  We 
did  not  talk.  Our  feet  beat  out  rhymes,  our  hands 
were  in  our  pockets,  we  slanted  a  little  forward,  as 
though  we  met  a  wind,  though  there  was  no  wind 
materially  perceptible. 

Something  was  happening  to  me — or  I  was  hap 
pening  into  something.  It  seemed  to  be  a  bigger 
kind  of  memory. 

The  world  as  Drama  opened.  There  was  a 
cracking — a  breaking  through  a  crust  into  a  great 
sea,  wide-shored.  There  came  first  a  strong  feeling 
of  Madam  Black,  and  then  this  deepening.  I  went 
under  the  surface. 

There  I  met  the  course  of  true  loves  that  did 
never  run  smooth,  the  Warrior,  and  the  Amazon 
Bride  worth  all  labor  of  gaining;  the  child  and  the 
parent,  now  together,  now  asunder;  friends,  and  the 
lightnings  that  rended  them  apart,  and  the  rushings 
together  again  when  the  lightnings  explained  them 
selves;  honest,  clownish  attempt  as  seen  in  its  own 
mirror,  and  as  seen  from  a  balcony  above,  Asses' 

79 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Heads  and  Pucks,  and  frostwork,  lacework,  magic 
fabrics,  night  and  day,  and  quarrel  and  reconcilia 
tion,  and  a  spectacle  and  a  pageant,  a  symphony 
playing  itself,  with  many  voices  and  fine  contrapuntal 
work.  Everywhere  and  all  the  time.  .  .  . 

My  feet  bore  my  body  on  under  the  stars,  but  an 
inner  man  stood  with  parted  lips.  Like  sprang  to 
like  even  here.  All  arranged  itself,  sprang  where  the 
composition  demanded.  Then  what  huge  Art — and 
what  towering  Artist?  What  Shakespeare  built  of 
Shakespeares — fused  from  myriads  of  Shakespeares 
— fused  and  conscious? 

I  was  half-way  up  a  stair. 

Doctor  Young's  voice  caught  us  from  behind. 
"Wait,  Gamaliel! — I  want  you  to  hear  what  I  am 
saying." 

Down  I  came — we  came — to  the  surface  of  the 
surface. 

But  this  night  started  with  Gamaliel  and  me — 
and  with  John,  too — new  voyages.  All  our  old 
dreams,  all  our  old  make-believe,  changed  somewhat 
in  character.  The  sphere  of  fancy,  iridescent, 
tenuous,  hollow,  gave  way  to  the  great  orb  of  im 
agination.  End  and  Use  came  in,  though  we  were 
not  conscious,  then,  of  their  entrance.  None  has 
ever  come  to  conclusions  with  Imagination,  nor  seen 
where  its  high  Verity  begins  or  ends. 

At  Christmas  I  went  home  to  Restwell.  For  the 
remainder  of  the  school  year  John  and  I  walked  to 
and  fro.  I  missed  Gamaliel.  In  the  springtime  my 
mother  persuaded  Doctor  Young  to  let  him  spend 
a  week  at  Restwell. . . .  He  and  John  and  I  swimming 
in  the  river! 

80 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Hilltop  Academy  closed  doors  behind  pupils  until 
mid-September  should  come.  What  I  had  chiefly 
learned  there  was  Gamaliel.  That  was  not  a  little 
to  me. 

Summer  came  on.  It  was  the  summer  of  1876,  the 
Centennial  summer.  My  grandfather,  sitting  be 
tween  the  pillars  upon  the  porch,  after  supper, 
twilight  about  him,  the  fireflies  beginning  to  sparkle, 
the  frogs  singing  down  by  the  little  pond,  the  even 
ing  star  bright  in  the  west,  was  wont,  this  summer, 
to  cast  back  and  talk  of  early  statesmen  and  of 
events  that  broke  into  light  at  this  step  and  at  that 
of  the  road  called  American.  He  could  remember 
Jefferson.  He  had  had  some  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Madison  and  to  a  lesser  degree  with  Mr.  Monroe. 
He  remembered  when  railroads  and  steamboats  came 
into  general  use.  He  was  a  boy  of  nine  when  he  heard 
of  the  cession  of  Florida  to  us  by  Spain.  He  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  now  Florida  was  ours  he 
would  go  afoot  and  find  Ponce  de  Leon's  fountain 
of  youth.  He  had  thought:  "What  a  present  it  will 
be  for  them  all!  I'll  let  'most  everybody  drink!" 
He  had  started  and  had  gotten  beyond  Whitechurch 
when  Daddy  Guinea,  who  was  then  a  young  man, 
overtook  him.  .  .  . 

A  night  or  two  after  this  I  went  to  see  Daddy 
Guinea.  He  was  much  older  than  my  grandfather; 
he  could  not  have  been  far  from  ninety.  Daddy 
Guinea  remembered  General  George  Washington. 
He  remembered  the  building  of  Rest  well. 

I  sat  on  the  cabin  door-step  and  he  sat  beside  me, 
his  great  veined  hands  hanging  over  his  knees. 
"What  is  dishyer  Centennial  I  heah  erbout?" 

81 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"It's  a  hundred  years  since  the  Declaration  of 
Independence. ' ' 

"Sho-ly!  En  what  was  er  hundred  years  befo' 
that?" 

I  thought  for  a  moment.  "We  were  colonies. 
We  lived  along  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  but  everywhere 
back  in  the  hills  the  Indians  lived." 

"En  er  hundred  years  befo'  that?" 

"The  Indians  lived  on  the  ocean,  too.  We  lived 
in  England  and  Scotland  and  Ireland  and  France 
and  Germany  and  Spain  and  Italy  and  Africa." 

Daddy  Guinea"^  great  hands  moved  together. 
"Sho-ly!  Sho-ly!  In  en  out.  In  en  out.  Look  at 
hit  one  way  en  hit  draws  out  long — longer  'n  from 
heah  to  neber !  Look  at  hit  ernother  way  en  hit  ain't 
enny  bigger  'n  er  bag  of  gyarden  seed !  All  those 
places  en  the  N 'United  States.  ...  en  above  the 
N' United  States  Beulah  Land,  where  old  Guinea 
gwine,  gwine!" 

He  sat  in  silence.  There  shone  above  us  soft, 
reflected  light.  The  creek  was  running  to  the  river, 
the  river  was  running  to  the  sea,  the  sea —  Up 
and  down  of  continents,  and  mankind  in  waves! 
I  knew  that  earth  and  all  were  flying  through  space. 
For  a  moment  I  grasped  intellectual  space,  and  the 
traveling  and  the  travelers  there.  Then  there  were 
just  the  homey  cabin,  and  Daddy  Guinea,  and  the 
whippoorwills. 

The  next  day,  Ahasuerus  and  I  hoeing  corn  in  the 
field  under  Lone  Tree  Hill,  Ahasuerus,  too,  wanted 
to  know  about  the  Centennial.  That  evening,  after 
an  early  supper,  my  mother  was  looking  over  a  pile 
of  magazines — new  ones,  and  rather  old  ones — sent 

82 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

by  Aunt  Harriet  from  Richmond.  Most  current 
literature  came  to  us  from  the  Warringers.  Grand 
father  sat  smoking,  resting,  dreaming  back  or  for 
ward.  Aunt  Sarah,  seated  where  she  could  get  the 
western  light,  was  hemstitching  ruffles,  and  where 
her  deep  desire  and  will  had  gone  I  do  not  know. 
Our  old  mastiff,  Hercules,  lay  by  me  on  the  steps. 
My  mother  spoke:  "This  is  a  little  bit,  father,  that 
I  think  you'll  like.  It's  from  'Topics  of  the  Time,1 
in  the  January  Scribner's  Monthly.  She  began  to 
read. 

"All  good  Americans  are  looking  forward  to  the  passage  of 
the  year  1876  with  great  interest;  and  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that 
they  are  animated  by  a  new  hopefulness.  The  financial  failures 
that  occur  da  not  depress  business  circles  as  they  once  did. 
There  is  a  belief  that  we  have  seen  the  worst,  that  it  is  well  that 
the  rotten  houses  should  go  down,  and  that  we  shall  practically 
start,  during  our  Centennial,  on  a  new  and  prosperous  national 
life. 

"  Of  a  certain  kind  of  business  there  will  undoubtedly  be  more 
done  during  the  year  than  ever  before.  The  passenger  traffic 
on  the  railroads  will  be  immense.  All  the  West  is  coming  East. 
All  the  men  and  women  who  have  been  desiring  throughout  their 
lives  to  visit  the  Eastern  coast,  yet  have  never  found  the  oc 
casion  for  such  an  expenditure  of  time  and  money,  will  come  to 
the  great  Exhibition.  The  thousands  in  Europe  who  have  long 
intended  to  visit  America  will  naturally  desire  to  take  it  at  its 
best  and  they  will  come  this  year.  The  Southern  States  will  be 
similarly  moved,  and  all  the  lines  of  travel  converging  upon 
New  York  will  be  crowded.  Railroads  and  steamboats  will 
do  unprecedented  passenger  business  and  hotels  will  be  over 
whelmed  with  guests.  The  whole  Eastern  coast  of  the  country 
north  of  Baltimore  will  feel  this  great  influx  of  life.  Newport 
and  Saratoga  .  .  .  will  be  full.  Every  Englishman — every 
foreigner  indeed —  will  visit  Niagara.  There  will  be  a  tremendous 
shaking  up  of  the  people,  a  great  going  to  and  fro  in  the  land, 

83 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

a  lively  circulation  of  money,  and  a  stimulation  of  trade.  .  .  „ 
There  is  still  another  reason  for  hopefulness.  The  nation  is  to 
be  brought  together  as  it  has  never  been  brought  together  before 
during  its  history.  In  one  hundred  years  of  intense  industry 
and  marvelous  development  we  have  grown  from  a  few  feeble 
colonies  to  a  powerful  nation  of  more  than  forty  millions  of  people. 
We  have  been  so  busy  that  we  have  never  been  able  to  look 
one  another  in  the  face,  except  during  four  terrible  years  of  civil 
war.  In  a  friendly  way,  for  brotherly  courtesies,  we  have  never 
come  together.  Well,  that  which  divided  us  is  past.  We  are 
now  all  members  of  a  consolidated  nationality,  and  this  year 
around  the  old  family  altar  at  Philadelphia  we  expect  to  meet 
and  embrace  as  brothers.  We  are  profoundly  hopeful  that  this 
year  is  to  do  much  to  cast  into  forgetfulness  the  bitterness  en 
gendered  by  the  Civil  War,  and  to  make  the  nation  as  united  and 
sympathetic  in  feeling  as  it  is  in  the  political  fact.  Of  one  thing 
we  are  certain,  if  the  South  comes  to  the  Centennial,  it  will  re 
ceive  such  a  welcome  as  will  be  accorded  to  no  guests  from  any 
other  part  of  the  world.  The  glories  of  the  old  Declaration  are 
a  part  of  their  inheritance,  and  without  them  our  festivals 
would  be  but  a  mockery.  They  are  the  guests  without  whom  we 
cannot  get  along — without  whom  there  would  be  bitterness  in 
our  bread,  sourness  in  our  wine,  and  insignificance  in  our  re 
joicings." 

My  mother  laid  down  the  magazine.  "I  don't 
think  anything  could  be  handsomer  than  that!'* 

My  grandfather  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar. 
General  Warringer  sent  him  good  cigars.  ''You're 
right,  Gary!  All  one  country — all  one  country. 
Like  a  family — -sometimes  we  pull  against  one  an 
other,  and  we  have  differences ;  but  we  come  together 
again.  More  than  that — like  an  individual.  We 
are  an  individual.  ...  I'd  like  to  talk  with  that 
editor." 

On  the  steps,  beside  Hercules,  I  became  conscious 
of  a  great  desire  to  go  to  the  Centennial. 

84 


CHAPTER  IX 

WANT  and  fine  lines  come  together  to  supply! 
In  less  than  a  week  we  heard  from  Aunt  Kate. 
It  had  been  a  fairly  prosperous  year  at  Flowerfield. 
Major  Dallas,  Aunt  Kate,  John,  and  Miriam  were 
going  to  the  Centennial — and  they  wanted  me  to  go 
with  them.  Uncle  John  would  give  me  the  trip. 
We  were  going  in  two  weeks.  We  might  be  away  a 
month,  even  longer.  We  would  stop  in  Washington 
on  the  way  to  Philadelphia.  There  was  a  possibility 
of  New  York  beyond  Philadelphia.  There  was — 
there  was — just  a  possibility  of  Niagara  Falls. 

How  slowly  went  by  those  two  weeks! 

They  passed.  I  went  to  Flowerfield;  we  started 
from  there.  I  see  us  now,  at  the  railroad  station, 
in  the  county  town.  Look  at  1876  pictures  to  see 
the  type  of  clothes  we  wore,  we  who  would  not  be 
too  far  behind  Fashion,  but  who  certainly  walked 
in  her  rear.  But  Major  Dallas  would  have  rested, 
no  matter  what  he  wore,  a  big,  magnetic  man,  able, 
and  very  kind.  Aunt  Kate  had  a  slight,  small 
body,  but  a  big — oh!  a  big — nature.  John  and 
Miriam  and  I  stood  in  a  brown  study  waiting  for 
the  train  to  come.  I  remember  how  the  day  was 
sunny,  but  not  heated.  John  was  fifteen.  Miriam 
a  little  under,  I  a  little  over,  fourteen. 

8s 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

The  train  came — we  were  aboard  with  our  ancient 
satchels,  our  unfashionable  umbrellas  and  baskets. 
Began  our  wonder- trip  to  the  Centennial  Exhibition. 

Virginia  scenery  was  good,  was  desirable,  but  the 
love  of  our  life,  for  Miriam,  John,  and  me,  was  getting 
out  of  Virginia.  We  had  never  been  out  of  Virginia. 
The  long  miles,  the  quite  a  number  of  hours  that 
must  be  overpassed  before  we  entered  the  District 
of  Columbia,  rather  appalled  us.  But  then  the 
journey,  even  through  Virginia,  grew  interesting. 
John  and  I  sat  together,  Miriam  had  the  seat  across 
the  aisle.  The  train  that  day  was  not  filled ;  we  could 
move  about,  exchange.  Uncle  John  and  Aunt  Kate 
were  lovely  persons  with  whom  to  travel.  When  the 
boy  came  through  with  fruit  we  had  fruit.  When  he 
brought  magazines  Uncle  John  bought  our  choice 
for  each  of  us.  We  were  traveling  finely,  comme  il 
faut,  with  the  bloom  on  the  event. 

Miriam  wore  a  blue-green  poplin,  with  an  em 
broidered  tie  at  the  throat.  She  had  a  small  round 
hat  of  straw,  colored  like  the  dress,  with  a  wreath 
of  cornflowers.  She  was  dark  and  slight  and  straight, 
with  strange,  deep  eyes,  and  a  smile  that  was  like 
a  different  dawn  each  time  it  came. 

In  the  late  afternoon  we  approached  the  confines 
of  Virginia.  At  Alexandria  we  began  to  thrill.  Now 
the  Potomac  River,  great  and  wide,  with  some  little 
boats  upon  it.  Now  the  Virginia  shore  behind  us. 
Now  before  us  Washington.  .  .  .  "Look,  children! 
There's  the  dome  of  the  Capitol!" 

Ours  was  an  old  hotel  on  Pennsylvania  Avenue, 
where  we  had  three  rooms,  and  outside  the  long 
windows  a  narrow,  ironwork  balcony.  Standing 

86 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

here  we  saw,  we  felt,  a  sycamore-tree,  a  languorous, 
summer  air,  warmer  than  in  our  part  of  Virginia 
where  we  lived  well  above  the  sea,  a  pearly  twilight, 
and  out  of  it  the  gas  street-lights  springing — then, 
with  a  white  flash,  an  arc-light.  That  was  an  amaze 
ment  to  more  than  us  that  summer !  Electric  light ! 
I  remember  first  reading  this  year  a  phrase  that  was 
beginning  to  come  in  like  a  star  in  bright  twilight, 
seen  and  not  seen  and  then  again  seen,  "The  Age  of 
Electricity."  .  .  .  We  young  folk  leaned  upon  the 
balcony  rail.  How  wide  was  Pennsylvania  Avenue 
— much  wider  than  Richmond  streets — and  how 
long  and  how  straight!  We  might  also  have  said, 
in  1876,  what  strange,  shabby  buildings  line  much 
of  it! 

But  we  are  in  glamour.  The  All  of  it  was  all 
right.  All  right  is,  presently,  the  hotel  dinner  in 
stead  of  the  supper  familiar  to  us.  All  right  is  the 
walk  before  bedtime  that  we  take  with  Uncle  John 
and  Aunt  Kate.  We  walk  to  the  Capitol.  By  the 
happiest  circumstance  there  hangs  in  the  sky  a  full, 
a  golden  moon.  With  that  and  with  the  street-lights 
we  might  see  the  faces  of  the  pedestrians  whom  we 
passed  or  overtook  or  accompanied.  We  liked  the 
sound  of  the  many  feet  upon  the  pavement.  Some 
seemed  to  say,  "We  live  in  this  happy  place."  Some 
said,  "We  are  travelers  like  you;  we  are  going  to  the 
Centennial!" 

Now  we  saw  the  Capitol.  We  were  in  its  grounds. 
We  stood  still,  we  travelers  from  Virginia,  and  gazed 
and  gazed  upon  the  moonlighted,  white  mountain 
with  the  rounded  crest.  It  swam  upon  us  in  a  beauty 
that  was  pain.  Oh,  all  ye  symbols,  belting  us  like 

87  ' 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

a  Zodiac,  three  dimensional  mother-language,  thick 
with  visions.  .  .  . 

We  found  a  bench  and  sat  down.  Major  Dallas 
spoke.  "I  don't  suppose  that  there  have  been  many 
periods  more  politically  corrupt  than  the  one  we're 
in.  Financially  corrupt,  too.  There's  rottenness. 
The  sign  of  hope  is  that  we  smell  it,  we  see  it,  and 
are  beginning  to  be  ashamed  of  it.  I  think  we'll 
have  a  house-cleaning.  But  it's  going  to  be  hard  to 
get  the  especial  stain  of!  these  years.  .  .  .  Well! 
And  still,  Kate,  there's  the  White  Capitol!" 

It  seemed  lambent  there  before  us.  It  grew  more 
and  more  beautiful.  I  heard  Miriam  sigh  with 
delight. 

We  went  back  to  the  hotel.  Oh,  the  compounded 
taste,  the  long,  twisted  romance  and  adventure  of 
the  hostel,  inn,  tavern,  hotel!  Miriam,  John,  and 
I,  I  know,  contacted  many  an  inn  beside  this  one  on 
Pennsylvania  Avenue. 

We  slept  and  woke  to  strong  enchantment  still. 
We  stayed  in  Washington  four  days.  And  here  we 
went  and  there  we  went,  and  we  returned  thrice  to 
the  Capitol.  We  went,  upon  a  river  boat,  down  to 
Mount  Vernon.  "Now  I  feel  at  home!"  said  Aunt 
Kate,  and  laughed.  "That  is,  I  feel  more  at  home." 

But  Miriam  and  John  and  I  were  where  the  novel 
was  to  us  home.  .  .  .  We  loved  the  Capitol,  and  we 
loved  the  balcony  before  our  rooms  at  that  hotel.  . . . 
Four  days,  and  we  went  to  the  great  Centennial 
Exhibition. 

I  have  seen  world's  fairs  since,  but  beside  them 
always  comes  up  1876  in  Philadelphia,  so  small  in 
comparison,  but  to  the  child-country  so  full  of  taste, 

88 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

so  vivid,  so  sonorous,  so  remarkable!  We  from  Vir 
ginia  had  a  new  pleasant  tavern  to  dwell  in  and  a 
new  city  to  see.  We  stood  in  Independence  Hall 
before  the  cracked  bell.  "Shut  your  eyes!"  said 
Miriam.  "Close  the  crack — lift  the  bell.  Now  it's 
up  in  the  steeple !  It's  whole — it's  ringing — ringing !" 

We  see  Philadelphia.  We  see  the  great  Exposition 
of  the  country  and  its  products,  of  other  nations  and 
their  products.  All  is  so  novel — -and  yet  is  it  so? 
Or  is  it  familiarity  in  perspective  that  makes  it  so 
rich,  so  entertaining?  Old  fairs,  great  markets, 
medieval,  ancient,  further- than-ancient,  seem  in 
volved  in,  floating  in,  the  present.  Always  nation 
and  product  have  gathered  to  look  at,  value,  exchange 
with,  nation  and  product.  .  .  .  The  Chinese  and 
Japanese  greatly  please  us;  the  Swiss,  the  Italians. 
Look  at  the  glass-blowers!  The  iridescent  shapes 
form,  drop  from  the  blower's  pipe. 

Alike  the  Occident  and  the  Orient  please  us. 

We  went  to  see  the  great  machinery  in  which  the 
West,  and  especially  our  own  country,  excelled.  I 
do  not  remember  in  what  factory,  nor  to  any  nicety 
for  what  purpose  the  machine  was  devised — but  I 
remember  Leviathan  before  which — before  whom — 
we  stood.  And  again  Miriam  and  I  seemed  to  open 
like  two  windows  upon  one  garden.  In  and  out, 
stilly,  mightily,  with  ease,  with  grace,  rhythmically, 
incredibly  swiftly,  went  a  mighty  piston.  Beneath 
it  giant  wheels  turned,  according.  There  were  lesser 
wheels  and  lesser,  and  between  the  wheels  ran  swiftly 
flowing  bands.  There  were  rods  and  cogs  and  what 
not,  and  all  important,  all  upholding  all.  The  air 
vibrated.  Up  and  down,  and  in  and  out,  and  to  and 

89 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

fro,  and  here  and  there,  and  now  and  then,  and 
around  and  around,  and — without  a  word  coined  to 
express  it — in  the  atmosphere  of  purpose,  end,  per 
formance — acted  the  machine.  Time  and  space  and 
mass  were  caught  at  work.  We  partook  of — we  were 
— that  complex-simple  motion. 

Of  all  the  shows  in  the  Centennial  Show,  I  most 
liked  this  Machine.  It  began  to  spin  for  me  trains 
of  ideas. 

We  saw  and  heard  at  work  the  newly  invented 
telephone.  There  was  a  marvel,  due  to  expand,  like 
the  Genie  out  of  the  Bottle  in  the  Arabian  Nights! 

We  saw  much  at  the  great  exhibition.  Paintings, 
for  instance,  and  models  of  many  things  upon  the 
face  of  the  earth.  And  the  people  and  the  people 
and  the  people,  the  American  people,  who  went  in 
and  out  at  gates !  The  clusters,  the  groups,  the  rela 
tionships  within  relationship,  the  dramas  within 
drama!  Habit,  manner,  clothes,  gesture,  voices, 
eyes,  hands — what  a  variorum  under  summer  light 
and  warmth,  what  rainbow  molecules  astir  in  a 
guessed-at  form ! 

We  spent  a  week  in  Philadelphia,  and  went  each 
day  to  the  Great  Exhibition.  Then  we  traveled  on 
to  New  York. 

We  stayed  at  a  hotel,  much  used  in  those  days 
by  Southerners. .  .  .  And  out  of  New  York  I  pick  now 
the  journeying  forth  from  New  York  to  see  the 
ocean.  That  happened  on  the  seventh  day  of  our 
visit.  We  had  seen  the  eight-story  (I  forget  whether 
eight  or  ten-story)  building,  the  child  skyscraper. 
We  had  been  to  Wall  Street  and  the  Stock  Exchange 
and  old  Trinity.  We  had  seen  the  Bowery  and 

90 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

Newspaper  Row  and  the  City  Hall  and  A.  T. 
Stewart's  store.  The  horse-cars  carried  us  from  sight 
to  sight.  We  had  walked  upon  Fifth  Avenue.  We 
knew  Union  Square  and  Madison  Square,  and  far, 
far  up-town,  Central  Park,  named  Central  when  it 
seemed  to  us  Outlying,  gave  us  a  green  welcome. 
We  went  over  to  the  banks  of  the  Hudson  and 
looked  across  to  the  Palisades.  General  Grant  was 
in  the  White  House,  there  was  no  pillared  white 
mausoleum  as  now.  We  saw  churches  within  and 
without,  and  we  visited  the  Metropolitan  Museum 
of  Art. 

Major  Dallas,  relatively  speaking,  knew  New  York. 
Affairs  had  brought  him  here  three  or  four  times 
in  late  years.  He  was  our  pilot.  It  was  the  wrong 
season  for  a  number  of  things.  Old  acquaintances, 
Southerners  now  living  here,  were  away  for  the  heated 
months.  And  the  theaters  offered  very  light  enter 
tainment.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  prime  out-of- 
door  weather,  and  there  was  so  much  to  be  seen  from 
out-of-doors!  We  crossed  to  Brooklyn  by  the  ferry. 
We  walked  on  the  Battery  and  visited  Castle  Garden. 
We  rose  early  one  morning  and  went  to  see  an  ocean 
liner  depart  for  England.  It  was  the  Scythia,  a 
Cunarder.  .  .  .  Again,  for  a  moment,  Madam  Black 
seemed  to  be  with  us.  Floating  houses,  moving 
bridges,  devices  to  bring  into  one  mind  Here  and 
There.  ... 

Then,  one  day,  we  ourselves  board  a  small  boat 
and  go  to  see  the  main  ocean.  We  go  to  Coney 
Island. 

The  air  is  fresh  and  drenched  with  light,  the  salt 
is  in  our  nostrils.  We  are  going  to  view  the  sea  that 

91 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

we  think — Miriam  and  John  and  I — that  we  have 
never  seen.  True,  the  harbor  is  filled  from  the  sea, 
but  we  dream  of  surf  and  thunder  and  land  so  far 
away  that  the  world  seems  water.  In  the  mean 
time  there  is  delight  in  the  boats  in  the  harbor  and 
the  various  shore.  There  is  as  yet  no  Statue  of 
Liberty.  We  pass  Bedloe  Island,  but  the  giant 
woman  does  not  rise  above  it.  We  are  in  the 
America  of  years  and  years  ago. 

We  saw  the  ocean.  We  landed  from  our  boat. 
Coney  Island  was  not  then  the  flaming,  clamant 
amusement  park  it  was  to  become.  But  there  was 
a  beginning.  We  landed  at  a  pier;  we  saw  a  hotel 
and  tents  and  booths;  some  kind  of  music  was  play 
ing;  persons  moved  about  In  a  moderate  throng. 
But  we  had  come  to  see  the  ocean.  We  went  upon 
the  beach,  we  walked  until  we  were  alone.  Here 
stretched  the  gleaming,  solitary  sand,  here  moved 
and  sounded  the  waves,  here  dwelt  Ocean.  We 
sat  down  in  the  shadow  of  a  dune,  the  five  of  us. 

At  sunset,  returning  to  the  city,  Miriam  and  John 
and  I  kept  to  the  stern  of  the  boat.  Major  Dallas 
and  Aunt  Kate  were  forward,  talking  with  some 
chance-met  acquaintance.  We  three  sat,  arms  upon 
rail,  keeping  Ocean  still  with  us.  The  Doat  left  a 
wake  of  dark  green,  foam  streaked  and  edged,  but 
tapering  at  last  into  sunset-colored  water  beneath 
the  sunset  sky.  There  was  aboard  a  band  of  four  or 
five  pieces.  It  played  "Suwanee  River." 

The  last  note  died.  Said  Miriam:  "Rivers  and 
ocean  and  cities.  ...  I  am  going  to  travel  and  travel 
and  travel!  Travel — come  home — love  that  and 
love  travel.  Travel,  come  home,  travel — " 

92 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"You'll  have  to  go  on  your  own  wings,"  said  John. 
"Travel  like  that  takes  money.'* 

"Well,  I'll  grow  the  wings  then — or  make  the 
money  then.  Make  the  honest  money — grow  the 
honest  wings."  She  rested  her  cheek  upon  her 
arms,  folded  upon  the  rail.  Her  eyes  looked  to  where 
met  sea  and  air.  She  began  to  sing  under  her  breath. 

"  Hear— taste— see. 
Taste — see — hear. — 
Power  behind  you — 
Go!" 

The  band  was  playing  airs  from  "Norma."  Uncle 
John  summoned  us  to  look  at  the  light  upon  the 
approaching  city. 

A  day  or  two  after  this  we  said  farewell  to  New 
York.  We  went  to  Niagara.  We  stayed  at  the 
Cataract  House.  We  saw  the  young  moon  above 
the  earth-shaking,  long  plunge  of  the  waters. 

Then,  after  two  days,  we  turned  back  to  Virginia, 
to  Restwell  and  Flowerfield. 


93 


CHAPTER  X 

T  ATTENDED  Hilltop  Academy  until  I  was  seven- 
-l  teen.  Of  course,  I  got  a  good  deal  of  instruc 
tion;  of  course,  I  grew.  But  it  remains  that  Ga 
maliel  was  for  me  the  living  point  there.  He  had 
based  his  lever  upon  an  intention  to  see  what  was 
existence  outside  his  father's  formula.  His  advent 
ures  upon  that  line  were  due  to  give  him  some 
wounds  and  bruises,  but  he  proceeded  with  the  quest. 

From  June  to  September  I  kept  to  Restwell  and 
more  and  more  became  a  farmer.  There  was  need 
for  all  who  could  work  to  work.  My  grandfather 
was  now  an  old  man.  He  had  done  and  done  largely 
his  part.  More  and  more  my  mother  and  I  helped 
him;  took  at  last  the  major  part  of  effort.  From 
September  to  June,  in  the  short  afternoons,  I  worked 
still,  in  the  fields,  or  with  the  stock,  or  at  the  barn, 
or  where  not.  Mandy's  Jim,  Ahasuerus,  a  hugely 
humorous  son  of  Africa  named  Bob,  and  I  worked 
together.  In  the  evenings  came  book-work  pre 
paratory  for  next  day's  classes.  All  times  and  coun 
tries  the  like  has  fallen  to  boys  and  girls.  I,  for  one, 
do  not  quarrel  with  what  strenuousness  there  was. 

And  I  remember  many  and  many  a  strong  splash 
of  sunshine. 

I  graduated  from  the  academy,  John  and  Gamaliel 
and  I  together.  I  led  in  some  things,  the  others  in 

94 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

others.  Now  stood  out  the  question  whether  my 
"education"  should  stop  here,  or  whether  I  might 
be  spared  and  financed  for  the  university.  There 
was  need  of  me  at  home,  and  need  of  every  dollar 
at  home.  If  we  could  keep  Rest  well,  it  and  my  pro 
fession  lay  in  one  before  me.  I  should  farm,  with 
what  help  I  could  employ,  the  three  hundred  acres. 

I  was  a  knower  and  lover  of  the  country.  I  had, 
of  course,  often  and  often  again,  dreams  and  long 
ings,  cloudy  aspirations,  passionate  tangential  move 
ments  toward  more  or  less  vague  otherwheres,  other 
spheres  of  action.  But  I  loved  home,  I  loved  Rest- 
well,  I  loved  my  mother,  my  grandfather,  Aunt 
Sarah,  the  colored  folk,  the  animals,  trees  and  plants, 
sticks  and  stones.  I  could  not  see  my  grandfather 
and  Aunt  Sarah  happy  elsewhere.  My  mother  would 
take  her  Restwell  with  her  wherever  she  might  be. 
But  my  grandfather  was  growing  too  old  to  root 
elsewhere  on  this  earth.  And  Aunt  Sarah  held  to  the 
place  like  a  trail  of  ivy.  .  .  .  Farming  was  a  most  use 
ful  profession.  So  long  as  the  world  believed  that 
it  must  have  wheat  and  corn  for  food,  some  part 
of  the  world  must  sow  and  tend  and  reap  the  same. 

I  told  my  mother,  when  we  talked  it  over,  on  the 
door-step  of  the  summer-house  in  our  old  flowery 
tangle  of  a  garden,  that  I  thought  I  had  better  take 
what  education  I  had,  and  become  what  I  already 
was,  that  is,  a  farmer.  I  said  that  I  shouldn't  mind 
it;  that,  indeed,  there  was  much  about  it  that  I 
liked. 

My  mother  listened,  softly  striking  against  her 
lips  a  piece  of  honeysuckle.  Then  she  said,  "I  want 
you  to  go  to  the  university." 

95 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

"How  can  I?" 

"I've  got  the  loan,  Michael.  Some  day  you'll 
pay  it  back  to  Carter  Warringer.  I'm  perfectly 
confident  as  to  that!" 

"But—*' 

"It's  enough  to  let  us  hire  Wilson  Reynolds  for 
the  spring  and  fall  work.  You'll  be  here,  just  the 
same,  all  the  long  summer.  I  want  you  to  go.  I 
want  you  to  be  able  to  choose  whether  you'll  farm 
or  do  something  else.  You'll  take  engineering.  You 
want  to  do  that,  don't  you?" 

11  Yes,  I  want  to.    But—" 

"Yes?" 

"I  do  not  know  if  it  is  what  I  shall  do  in  the 
end." 

"It  will  be  part  of  what  you  do  in  the  end.  I 
fancy,"  said  my  mother,  "that  there  '11  always  be 
some  kind  of  building  roads  and  driving  tunnels 
and  getting  at  mines  and  bridging  rivers.  Even  when 
we  travel  through  the  air!" 

I  went  to  the  university — John  and  I,  still  together. 

Gamaliel  did  not  go.  He  was  in  trouble  with  his 
father.  Doctor  Young  wished  him  to  continue  with 
all  the  classics  and  become  a  teacher.  First  he 
should  be  his  father's  assistant;  then,  when  in  the 
course  of  nature  that  father  passed  on  to  his  reward, 
there  would  be  for  the  son  Hilltop,  livelihood,  use 
fulness,  a  great  and  dignified  profession. 

"I  do  not  want  to  teach,"  said  Gamaliel.  "Not, 
at  least,  until  I  learn  something." 

"This  is  nothing  to  you  then?"  asked  the  father. 
His  gesture  described  a  circle  with  himself  seated  in 
the  middle. 

06 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Gamaliel  answered:  "I  don't  mean  that.  I  love 
you,  father,  and  I  am  built  on  all  that.  But  I  want 
to  stand  on  it  all,  and  go  on.  You  want  me  to  stay 
in  it,  and  to  be  just  it." 

"You  do  not  know  what  I  want!  You  are  simply 
selfish,  ungrateful,  mulish — " 

"If  I  could  take  chemistry  or  biology — " 

"You  will  take  the  courses  I  indicate  or  none  at 
all.  Biology!  That  is  the  way  your  Darwins  and 
the  like  begin!'* 

Gamaliel  turned  pale.  His  mouth,  his  brows, 
made  dark,  straight  lines  across  his  face.  He  spoke 
dryly,  unemotionally.  "I  am  not  going,  father,  to 
the  university." 

The  other  answered  in  a  strangled  voice:  "Then 
you  shall  clerk  it,  right  here  in  Whitechurch!  I  hear 
that  Walter  Gilbert  wants  a  youth  for  the  drug 
store." 

"May  I  go  to  see  him  about  the  job?" 

"Yes!" 

Gamaliel  got  up  and  said,  "Thank  you,  father!" 
and  left  the  study.  Doctor  Young  sat  rigid  in  his 
chair.  He  saw  his  own  anger  before  him.  He  had 
intensity;  he  did  not  have  breadth.  He  sat  staring 
for  a  long  time,  little  by  little  relaxed.  He  put  his 
head  down  upon  the  desk  and  said  a  short  prayer. 
Then,  bolt  upright  again,  he  turned  to  finish  the  letter 
before  him.  "Gamaliel"  was  the  last  written  word. 
Now  he  went  on.  "  Gamaliel  has  always  opposed  me. 
Now  he  declares  that  he  will  not  go  to  the  university. 
Very  well!  I  am  going  to  let  him  find  out  his  own 
mistake !  I  shall  give  him  a  year  to  work  for  his  own 
bread  here  in  Whitechurch.  I  have  just  sent  him  to 

97 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Walter  Gilbert,  who,  I  hear,  wants  a  clerk.  A  year, 
I  have  no  doubt,  will  teach  the  lesson.  At  eighteen 
he  will  be  more  amenable  to  reason  and  my  wishes 
than  he  is  at  seventeen.  It  will  not  be  too  late  for 
him  then,  though  I  should  prefer  that  he  went  now. 
Of  course,  my  pride  is  hurt,  but  it  is  for  the  boy 
himself  that  I  am  anxious — •" 

So  Gamaliel  did  not  go  with  John  and  me  to  the 
university.  Nor  did  he  go  at  eighteen. 

He  came  to  Restwell  to  tell  me  good-by.  We 
went  to  the  river  and  sat  on  the  bank  above  the  old 
swimming-hole.  " Don't  you  fellows  forget  me!" 

"We  won't." 

"Life's  just  a  fight. " 

"We  three  don't  fight." 

"That's  true.  But  fighting's  such  a  sharp,  close 
reality.  It  feels  realer — like  pain!  I've  had  a  lot 
of  pain." 

We  sat  and  threw  small  stones  into  the  river. 
The  rings  widened. 

"How's  the  old  drug-store?" 

"I  don't  mind  it  so  much.  I  like  the  mixing 
things  in  the  room  behind.  Mr.  Gilbert  shows  me 
a  lot.  I'm  learning  a  lot.  And  I  never  knew  that 
he  had  all  those  books!  My  father  doesn't  know  it 
now.  I'm  there  at  night,  you  know.  I  take  a  book, 
and  if  any  one  comes  in  to  buy  I  sell.  Then  when  the 
store's  empty  there's  the  book  again.  And  I  like 
to  get  with  my  mind  into  the  middle  of  all  the  jars 
and  things — the  liquids  and  the  powders  and  the 
grains  and  the  bark.  But  everybody  that  comes 
in  seems  to  know  that  my  father  and  I  have  quar 
reled.  I  hate  lectures  and  I  hate  pity!"  He  lifted 

98 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

a  good-sized  stone  and  flung  it.  The  water  splashed, 
the  rings  spread. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  next  year?" 

"I  don't  know.  What  are  we,  anyway?  That's 
what  I  want  to  know!" 

But  I,  no  more  than  he,  could  answer  that.  We 
lay  by  the  river,  and  after  a  while  we  climbed  the 
old  fairy  bank  and  coppice  to  the  graveyard,  and 
passed  through  this,  and  so  across  the  field  to  the 
house  and  up  to  my  room.  And  at  the  last  it  was 
again  just: 

"Don't  you  fellows  forget  me!" 

"We  won't!" 

John  and  I  went  to  the  university.  Major  Dallas 
accompanied  us,  to  see  us  established,  to  show  us 
his  old  haunts  and  my  father's,  to  introduce  us  to 
old  professors.  It  was  still  in  much  the  university 
of  the  simpler  Jeff ersonian  day.  Uncle  John  left  us ; 
John  and  I  settled  down.  We  felt  strong  men,  and 
in  the  world! 

We  had  rooms  in  one  of  the  "ranges,"  all  so 
cloister-like.  But  our  meals  we  took  at  Doctor 
X's  house,  Doctor  X's  wife  being  a  cousin  of  my 
mother's.  We  began  to  learn  our  fellow-students, 
to  place  ourselves.  We  stood  initiations.  We  sorted 
our  friends  and  no-friends.  .  .  . 

The  university  was  built  upon  a  plan  broad  and 
free.  A  student  had  great  liberty.  He  might  do 
or  he  might  refrain  from  doing.  Karma  piled  in  either 
case,  but  outside  of  some  agreed-upon  matters,  none 
attempted  forcibly  to  mold  karma.  The  student 
lived  and  took  the  consequences. 

In  this  year  John  and  I  skirted  various  obvious 

99 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

temptations.  Twice  or  thrice — perhaps  oftener — 
we  ceased  to  skirt  them;  we  dived  or  sank,  we 
embraced  them,  mer-things  in  old  depths. 

But  we  are  men  of  the  air,  not  of  the  sea.  That 
was  an  ancient  home,  but  we  have  parted  from  it. 
The  sea  is  in  our  veins,  but  there  comes  something 
other  than  the  sea.  It  was  hardly  a  question — or 
it  was  a  question,  as  you  please — of  virtue.  Simply, 
we  did  not  like  the  taste,  we  turned,  we  revolted. 
Those  ancient  waters  were  no  longer  for  our  thirst. 
John,  here,  came  out  first,  and  I  followed  him.  We 
stood  upon  the  shore,  we  breathed  the  air.  John 
said:  "I  don't  see  any  fun  in  all  that.  It's  messy 
and  dirty  and  small!" 

So  we  came  out  and  we  found  that  we  still  had 
company. 

We  loved  the  university  very  well.  For  its  out 
ward  appearance  there  was  the  antique  and  beau 
tiful  simplicity  that  still  sets  it  apart.  We  had 
fondness  for  many  who  taught  us.  Even  those  we 
did  not  like  were  no  worse  than  stimuli.  We  liked 
the  life,  half  free,  half  bounded,  the  throng  of  our 
fellows,  the  friends  we  made,  the  societies  we  joined. 
We  liked  our  rooms,  our  independence.  In  retro 
spect,  those  two  years  are  thick,  for  me,  with  tastes, 
aromas,  touches,  characteristic,  endearing.  Of  course 
there  were  lassitudes,  dislikes,  friction,  and  quarrels, 
stupidities,  ugliness,  hot  heads  and  hot  hearts, 
tragic  emotions.  But  these  I  let  disintegrate.  I 
understand  them  and  let  them  vanish.  But  the 
honey  of  the  other  I  conserve,  and  put  it  in  its  due 
cell  in  the  great  hive. 

Out  of  the  hundreds  of  our  fellows,  out  of  all  the 

100 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

friendly  sort,  I  pick  three.  Royal  Warringer,  John's 
and  my  cousin,  was  there.  I  admired  then  and 
pulled  against  Royal  Wamnger,  and  the  doing  both 
persisted.  His  was  the  magnificent  genius  of  ma 
terial  acquisition.  He  knew  all  his  life  how  to  gather 
into  barns,  and  it  is  a  great  power.  But  he  meant  to 
live,  just  himself,  and  of  course  his  wife  and  children, 
his  friends,  his  servants,  his  " court,"  upon  the  wide- 
gathered  store.  Of  course  he  gave  gifts,  but  he  re 
garded  them  as  gifts,  and  would  direct  where  they 
fell.  So  I  think  that,  in  a  partial  and  temporary 
fashion,  he  was  harmful,  though  he  never  saw  him 
self  as  harmful,  and  so  was  no  hypocrite.  And  per 
haps  that  is  the  case  with  more  of  us  than  Royal. 
He  was  a  little  older  and  in  the  year  above  John 
and  me.  He  had  the  intention  of  being  kind  to  us 
because  we  were  his  kin.  He  had  even  then  more 
money  than  had  we.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow, 
with  a  large,  dreamy,  almost  mystical  face. 

And  there  was  Phillip  Garrett  who  was  born  for 
political  life  in  a  high  sense.  And  Conrad  Conrad 
who  used  to  pass  and  repass,  in  the  dark  or  at  dawn 
or  sunset,  the  cell-like  room  of  Poe.  I  think  that  he 
tried  to  conjure  Poe  forth,  to  walk,  cloaked,  beside 
him. 

Life  flowed  on,  bright  and  strong. 

I  went  home  for  Christmas.  I  went  home  for 
the  summer,  I  went  home  again  at  Christmas,  and  for 
three  days  to  Flowerfield.  I  now  began  to  see  Miriam 
as  she  will  look  and  be  in  glory. 


101 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  the  second  summer  of  that  university 
stretch  of  existence.  I  was  nineteen.  When  I 
returned,  that  June,  to  Restwell,  acquaintances, 
meeting  me,  said :  ' '  You've  grown.  You  are  a  man ! ' ' 

Whitechurch,  too,  they  said,  was  grown.  I  saw 
the  new  buildings,  but  yet  Whitechurch  seemed 
shrunken.  It  occurred  to  me  for  the  first  time  that 
it  was  a  village.  .  .  .  Gamaliel  was  not  there.  He 
had  never  come  to  the  university  nor  returned  to 
his  father's  way  of  thinking.  A  year  past  he  had 
gone  to  Baltimore,  Mr.  Gilbert,  to  my  thinking, 
secretly  helping  him.  There  he  was  drug  clerk, 
in  a  larger  pharmacy  than  could  be  found  in  White- 
church.  He  clerked,  he  studied.  Out  of  his  letters, 
which  came  once  a  month,  I  might  piece  a  curious, 
keen,  absorbed  life.  I  talked  of  him  with  Mr.  Gil 
bert,  the  quaint,  silent,  big-eyed  druggist. 

"He's  an  observer,  a  thinker,  and  a  feeler,  in  about 
equal  parts,"  said  Mr.  Gilbert.  "He  won't  go  off 
in  a  dream,  either !  He'll  get  up  and  act.  He  doesn't 
fancy;  he  imagines.  You've  got  imagination,  too, 
Michael.  What  always  interests  me  is  a  person 
strong  enough  to  occupy  his  imaginations — move  in, 
so  to  speak!'* 

At  Restwell  we  managed,  this  summer,  to  retain 
the  services  of  Wilson  Reynolds.  He  freed  me  for 

102 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

a  wider  social  life.  I  went  to  parties.  I  spent 
hours  at  Beechwood  and  Mt.  Pleasant,  where 
bloomed  young  male  and  female  Byrds  and  Corbins. 
I  went  to  see  Whitechurch  young  ladies.  I  dressed 
very  carefully  for  church,  having  first  thoroughly 
groomed  Boreas,  upon  whom  I  rode  beside  the 
carriage  where  sat  my  grandfather,  my  mother,  and 
Aunt  Sarah. 

And  in  August  I  went  to  Flowerfield. 

Flowerfield  was  filled  and  gay  this  summer.  John 
had  brought  Phillip  Garrett  home  with  him.  Aunt 
Harriet,  sparing  a  month  from  the  White  Sulphur, 
was  here,  and  with  her  Dorothea.  The  Dallases  pos 
sessed  in  full  the  Southern  genius  for  hospitality. 
Neighborhood  girls  and  youths  rode  in,  walked  in, 
at  the  old,  ivy-covered  gate.  Windows  and  doors 
stood  open ;  you  heard  the  ripple  of  the  piano,  chat 
ter,  singing,  laughter,  the  sound  of  croquet  balls. 
If  solitude  was  wanted — or  if  solitude  &  deux  was 
wanted — you  had  the  oak-grove,  the  willowy  meadow, 
the  orchard,  where  the  grass  grew  long  and  the  trees 
close  and  sweet.  There  was  also  a  lane  called 
from  old  time  Lovers'  Lane. 

In  mid-August  came  the  tournament — and  that 
belongs  to  the  old  South.  You  do  not  meet  it  any 
longer,  I  imagine,  in  the  South  that  grows  out  of  the 
old  South. 

The  Flowerfield  county  was  a  debonair  county, 
addicted  to  social  meetings,  an  entertained  and  en 
tertaining  county,  a  county,  moreover,  of  good 
horses  and  good  riders.  This  year,  too,  was  a  young- 
man-and-woman  year.  The  sun  rejoiced,  the  moon 
was  mild  at  night. 

103 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

From  a  bouquet  of  lesser  gatherings  rises  stately 
the  picnic  and  tournament  to  be  held  at  Green 
Groves,  between  Flowerfield  and  the  town.  Here 
spread  a  field  for  carriages,  and  shady,  gently  sloping 
Watteau  banks  for  the  assembly  that  drove  or  rode 
or  came  afoot,  while  full  before  these  stretched  an 
ideal  course  for  the  mounted  knights.  I  may  say 
at  once  that  the  only  tilting  was  riding  at  the  ring. 
Seven  poles,  seven  crosspieces,  seven  dangling  iron 
rings,  stood  at  dignified  distances.  The  knights 
each  shook  a  spear,  rode  the  course  at  a  gallop,  rode 
in  all  three  times  the  round,  came  out  with  as  many 
of  those  rings  as  might  be  gleaming  the  length  of  the 
spear.  It  was  not  so  extremely  easy  to  gather  the  fruit ! 

Town  and  country,  twenty  knights  entered  them 
selves  upon  the  marshal's  list.  Each  knight  rode  for 
a  lady.  There  would  be  a  flowery  crown  for  a  Queen 
of  Love  and  Beauty,  and  lesser  chaplets  for  three 
Princesses.  The  knights  chose  each  their  lady,  mak 
ing  application  to  be  her  knight. 

John  must  ask  Dorothea,  she  being  the  guest  of 
his  house,  though  he  wanted,  I  knew,  to  ride  for  Amy 
Page.  But  it  happened  that  Dorothea,  who  was  as 
imperious  as  Semiramis,  had  set  her  heart  upon 
George  Allen,  whom  she  had  seen  ride  at  the  White. 
He  did  ride  and  shoot  very  well  and  she  thought  that 
he  would  get  the  wreath.  She  gave  him  opportunity 
to  ask  her,  just  so  soon  as  the  tournament  was  in  the 
air,  and  he  took  it,  under  the  grape-arbor  in  the 
garden.  So  John,  after  all,  could  ask  Amy  Page. 

I  forestalled  Phillip  Garrett  and  asked  Miriam. 
She  said,  "All  right,  Michael." 

The  day  of  the  tournament  approached,  arrived. 

104 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

It  was  gay,  clear,  bright,  dry  August  weather.  The 
grass  was  browned,  trillions  of  insects  sang.  I  was 
the  Knight  of  the  Green  Wreath;  John,  the  Knight 
of  the  Mountain,  Phillip,  the  Knight  of  the  Climbing 
Star.  We  carried  these  devices  upon  light  wooden 
or  pasteboard  silvered  or  gilded  shields.  We  rode 
in  long  boots  with  spurs,  we  had  sash  or  scarf,  we 
had  silvered  casques  or  plumed  hats.  We  decked  our 
horses.  We  followed  to  the  top  of  its  bent  all  the 
bright  foolery  and  dead  earnest  of  youth. 

Green  Groves  presented  a  throng.  There  were 
there  every  one  you  knew  and  some  you  did  not 
know.  The  brown  lists  stretched  to  right  and  left. 
The  marshals  overpaced  them.  Beyond  was  the 
beechwood  where,  pending  need  of  them,  the  knights' 
horses  were  fastened.  We  did  not  go  so  far  in  the 
ways  of  chivalry  as  to  have  squires,  though  Lewis, 
indeed,  volunteered  to  act  for  any  one  of  the  three 
of  us  from  Flowerfield. 

The  day  at  Green  Groves  began  gaily,  went  well. 
The  tournament  was  for  the  afternoon.  .  .  .  After 
noon  came.  The  knights  withdrew  themselves,  re 
paired  to  the  beechwood  and  their  horses.  Youth 
and  middle  age  and  elder  years  left  the  plateau 
where  had  been  spread  the  abundant  picnic  feast, 
and  came  upon  the  slopes  where  all  might  see.  The 
marshals  rode  around,  making  sure  that  the  rings 
swung  right.  They  backed  their  horses  to  the  bar 
rier.  Forth  rode  a  herald  in  a  tabard — Dick  Yorke, 
who  knew  how  to  wind  a  bugle,  and  had  a  voice 
like  that  of  Stentor.  The  bugle  sounded,  Dick  made 
proclamation.  Into  the  lists  paced  King  Talliaferro, 
for  the  nonce  the  Knight  of  the  Heart  and  the  Arrow. 

105 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

The  youngest  women,  the  girls  of  seventeen  and 
eighteen  and  nineteen  and  thereabouts,  sat  in  a  bright 
parquet  upon  a  middle  bank,  beneath  branchy,  huge 
oaks.  It  was  a  day  of  half-draped,  half-princess 
dresses,  of  flower-hung,  bent,  enshadowing  hats. 
They  sat  in  flowered  or  delicate-colored  muslin, 
nainsook,  lawn,  organdie,  dimity,  mull.  Marian, 
Miriam,  Dorothea,  Nancy,  Anne — Amy,  Lucy, 
Nelly,  Margaret,  Alice — Elizabeth,  Judith,  Mary, 
and  Betty — Molly,  Carrie,  Fanny,  Meta,  and  Hope. 
They  seemed  a  flower-garden,  they  and  the  rainbow- 
scarfed  knights.  There  was  a  breeze,  a  murmur, 
that  was  like  the  bees  going  to  and  fro.  When 
Talliaferro  rode  out  there  might  doubtless  have  been 
observed  a  lift  of  Fanny's  bosom  beneath  her  rose 
organdie.  .  .  .  How  long  and  wide  and  rich  are  the 
vistas  of  the  matter-of-fact ! 

Well,  the  tournament!  After  all,  George  Allen 
did  not  win  the  queen's  wreath.  After  all,  John  won 
it.  Warren  Lightfoot  won  the  first  princess's  wreath, 
I  the  second,  Talliaferro  the  third.  We  rode  to  the 
Watteau  bank  and  laid  the  wreaths  at  the  feet  of 
Amy,  Alice,  Miriam,  Fanny.  Fiery  blushes,  laughter, 
applause  through  Green  Groves — flowery  speeches 
by  the  best  speechmakers — good  knights,  fair  ladies, 
beauty,  devoir!  .  .  .  Echoes  and  echoes  when  the 
shell  of  the  ages  is  held  to  the  ear! 

The  picnic  at  Green  Groves  dissolves  away.  But 
that  night,  at  Flowerfield,  we  had  dancing — fifty 
young  people  and  a  dozen  of  the  elders  to  watch, 
and  Jim  Dandy,  David,  and  Daniel,  the  best  three 
negro  fiddlers  in  the  county.  Jim  Dandy  called  the 
figures. 

106 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

The  day  was  over.  The  dance  was  over.  I  lay 
in  bed — I  slept  at  last.  The  next  day  the  house 
seemed  still,  resting,  reminiscent.  Individuals  ap 
peared  inclined  to  go  individual  ways.  I  saddled 
and  mounted  Boreas  and  rode  to  the  great  wood 
by  Lost  Creek.  When  I  was  deep  in  the  brown 
shadows  I  fastened  Boreas  and  went  myself  and  lay 
under  a  beech-tree. 

Miriam.  .  .  . 

I  shut  my  eyes.  Miriam  and  I  were  together. 
There  was  no  environment.  Just  Miriam  and  I 
together. 

All  things  came  into  the  circle  of  Miriam  and  me. 
.  .  .  Miriam  and  all  things  came  into  the  circle  of  me. 
.  .  .  Miriam  and  I  and  all  things — all  persons,  all 
tilings — dissolved  into  Being,  into  Energy,  that  with 
ache  and  with  bliss  communed  with  itself. 

Time  went  by.  But  I  was  in  a  timeless  deep  world 
where  extreme  motion  and  extreme  rest  meet.  I 
thought  in  no  separate,  edged  fashion  of  Miriam. 
There  was  a  world,  and  Miriam  and  I,  having 
created  it,  moved  within  it — Miriam-Michael  the 
name  of  the  god. 

The  simple,  strong  delight  wavered  and  frayed 
down.  The  light  of  the  great  sun,  the  warmth  of 
the  great  body,  diminished  and  diminished.  I  came 
back  to  separation,  to  the  half-god;  farther  still  to 
one  Michael  Forth  in  a  wood  by  Lost  Creek.  ...  I 
looked  at  the  sky  and  noted  the  time  of  day.  Pres 
ently  I  left  the  earth  beneath  the  beech-tree,  and, 
untying  Boreas,  mounted  him  and  rode  homeward. 

But  there  stayed  the  glow  from  the  experienced  fire. 

When  I  met  Miriam  at  Flowerfield  I  saw  a  loved 

107 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

figure — a  gate  to  Being,  Wisdom,  and  Joy.  She  and 
I  were  two  leaves  of  one  gate. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  I  went  home  to  Rest  well, 
and  Miriam  and  I  had  said  nothing  of  any  new 
depths. 

At  Restwell  for  the  remainder  of  the  summer 
and  the  early  autumn  there  was  work  enough  to 
do,  despite  the  presence  of  Wilson  Reynolds.  I 
worked  with  energy,  earning  sleep,  earning  also 
periods  up  above  conscious  work,  when  the  machine 
moved  exquisitely,  when  there  came  rays  from  the 
sun  behind  the  sun. 

Between  these  and  the  work  of  the  fields  fell 
periods  more  swiftly  vibrating  than  the  one,  less 
swiftly  vibrating  (clumsy  words  we  use!)  than  the 
other.  In  one  of  these  moods  I  began  to  versify. 
I  must  express,  and  so  I  took  a  way  at  hand. 

I  may  have  known  dimly,  for  a  long  while,  that  it 
lay  at  hand.  I  could  remember  Madam  Black  say 
ing,  "You  may  turn  to  writing.'*  At  the  academy, 
Doctor  Young's  class  in  English  Composition  had 
not  bored  me.  A  dance  in  fetters  was  still  dancing. 
At  the  university,  "Write  it  out!"  that  I  have  seen 
have  terrors  enough  for  some  minds  came  to  me  with 
an  old  familiarity,  as  of  a  chord  sounding  back  of 
the  university  and  the  academy,  back  of  Madam 
Black,  back  of  childhood  ...  at  any  rate,  of  this 
childhood. 

Now  the  vast  Field  of  the  Emotional  potently 
quickening  once  again,  potently  feeling  again  the 
breath  of  spring,  I  began  again  to  sing,  for  the  bird 
sings  in  May.  Before  work,  in  the  dawn,  after  work 
when  there  was  summer  night,  I  wrote  down  lyrics. 

108 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

But  even  so — even  then — a  stronger  mood  than 
alone  the  lyric  began  to  repossess  me.  I  came  one 
day  to  filling  out  between  three  lyrics.  A  drama  in 
one  long  act,  infantine  enough,  doubtless,  but  to 
my  then  eyes  poetic,  grandiose,  and  true,  came  out 
of  my  brain  and  nested  in  a  quire  of  foolscap  paper. 
I  enjoyed  writing  it.  It  was  quite  true,  as  my  mother 
said!  Engineering  did  not  confine  itself  to  one 
species  of  material.  Driving  roads,  making  con 
nections,  leveling  mountains,  raising  towers,  con 
ducting  commerce,  surveying  the  Unattempted,  At 
tempt  in  mind,  appeared  a  continuous  process,  in 
operation  upon  more  planes  than  one. 


109 


CHAPTER  XII 

1  RETURNED  to  the  university.    I  came  home  at 
Christmas.     Again  I  returned  to  the  university, 
and  all  seemed  well.    In  mid- January  came  the  tele 
gram.    My  mother  was  ill  with  pneumonia. 

Aunt  Sarah,  Mammy,  and  I  nursed  her.  We  would 
have  held  her  in  our  arms,  with  us,  if  we  could.  But 
on  the  seventh  day  she  died.  ...  I  touch  through  all 
the  cells  my  woe  again. 

The  wave  was  one  that  swept  me  forth.  In  three 
months  they  found  one  morning  my  grandfather, 
very  tranquil,  smiling,  dead  upon  his  couch. 

The  Dallases  came  from  Flowerfield,  General  War- 
ringer  and  Aunt  Harriet  from  Richmond.  There 
was  again  a  funeral,  and  all  the  people  round  about. 
.  .  .  Then  dead  stillness,  and  the  two  fresh,  raw 
mounds  in  the  graveyard.  It  was  early  spring,  but 
I  sat  there  beside  them  in  what  seemed  December. 

General  Warringer  and  Major  Dallas  consulted 
in  the  house.  Restwell  was  heavily  mortgaged.  I 
was  nearly  twenty — must  finish  my  education.  If 
then  I  did  well,  engineering  might  take  me  afar. 
There  was  scarcely  any  ready  money.  I  could  not 
keep  and  farm  Restwell.  "He  would  feel  the  wrench, 
but  he  would  get  over  it!  All  in  all,  it  may  well  be 
the  best  for  him.  But  Sarah—*1  said  Uncle  John. 

no 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

General  Warringer  drummed  upon  the  table.  "I 
want  to  talk  to  Harriet — " 

It  was  Uncle  John  who,  a  week  later,  asked  me  to 
walk  with  him,  and  when  we  were  by  the  river  opened 
upon  Restwell.  "Had  I  thought—?" 

I  said  that  I  knew  that  we  were  dreadfully  in 
debt,  but  that  I  thought  that  Aunt  Sarah  and  I 
might  yet  manage  to  pay  the  interest. 

'  *  It  was  your  idea  to  remain  at  Restwell  and  farm  ?' ' 

I  said  that  I  didn't  see  anything  else  to  do. 

"Is  it  more  for  Sarah,  or  for  yourself  ?" 

I  said  that  I  supposed  that  it  was  for  both.  But 
at  any  rate,  Aunt  Sarah  wouldn't  be  happy  elsewhere. 

"But  you  could  be  so?" 

"How  can  I  feel  just  now  that  I  would  be  happy 
anywhere?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  it  is  pointed 
out,  sir,  that  I  should  stay  here  and  try  to  pay  the 
debts  and  keep  the  place." 

"No.  It  is  only  one  way  pointed  out,  Michael! 
Now  listen  to  me  a  bit.  I've  always  recognized  in 
you  a  spring  of  joy  and  strength.  You've  got  the 
root  of  genuine  growth.  You  won't  be  unhappy 
long,  and  you'll  carry  with  you  wherever  you  go 
all  that  you  want  out  of  the  past,  and  no  more  than 
what  you  want.  You've  got  the  faculty  of  selec 
tion.  Now  listen  to  me.  Carter  Warringer  and 
Harriet  want  to  buy  Restwell." 

It  came  to  me  with  a  positive  physical  shock  and 
wrench.  I  was  being  uprooted.  I  leaned  against 
a  tree;  my  feet  clung,  pressed  into  the  soil.  The 
river,  the  hills,  the  graveyard,  the  unseen  house 
seemed  to  strain  with  me. 

Uncle  John  watched  me  without  seeming  to  watch 

in 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

me.  He  spoke  on  in  his  good,  manly,  genial  voice. 
"It  seems  to  us  the  simplest  and  best  thing,  Michael. 
The  Warringers  have  been  looking  for  a  country 
place.  Harriet  has  a  natural  love  for  Restwell. 
She  is  extremely  anxious  that  the  matter  shall  go 
through.  It  provides  for  Sarah.  She  will  simply 
live  on  here  in  her  own  room  and  place.  Daddy 
Guinea,  Mammy — nothing  of  that  kind  will  be 
changed.  The  Warringers  do  not  mean  to  give  up 
the  Richmond  house.  They  will  be  there  in  the 
winter- time,  and  Sarah  with  them,  if  she  likes  it  so. 
If  she  does  not,  you  know,  Michael,  and  she  knows, 
that  there  is  always  Flowerfield.  More  than  that, 
Warringer  would  take  on  Wilson  Reynolds  as  mana 
ger,  giving  him  and  his  wife  the  old  overseer's  house. 
Sarah  is  fond  of  Mrs.  Reynolds;  if  she  wishes  she 
can  stay  at  Restwell  even  in  the  winter.  Harriet 
has  talked  to  Sarah,  and  she  is  content.  She  thinks 
that  it  will  be  better  for  you.  She  thinks  about 
you  just  as  you  think  about  her.  Carter  Warringer 
is  making  money.  He  is  quite  able  to  buy  the  place 
and  to  clear  off  at  once  the  mortgages.  It  isn't  a 
favor  to  the  situation.  He  and  Harriet  have  got 
a  strong  desire  for  Restwell.  ...  Of  course,  it  won't 
be  the  old  Restwell.  Still,  Harriet's  the  colonel's 
daughter,  your  father's  sister.  Carter  and  Royal 
and  Dorothea  are  your  close  kin. ...  I  think  the  price 
should  be  about  this  figure."  He  named  it.  "That 
will  clear  the  place  and  take  care,  besides,  of  your 
debt  to  Warringer.  What  is  left — it  won't  be  much — 
should  be  invested  for  Sarah,  with  only  enough  kept 
out  to  put  you  through  the  university  and  maintain 
you  until  you  are  earning  for  yourself.  Between 

112 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

us,  Warn  iger  and  I  can  certainly  find  you  an  open 
ing.  After  that,  I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  of 
your  making  your  way. ...  It  really  is  the  only  thing, 
Michael!  There  is  a  heavier  load  of  debt  than  we 
thought.  You  could  not  keep  the  place  from  being 
sold.  This  way  it  goes  still  to  Forths  and  Sarah's 
happiness  is  cared  for." 

I  said,  hoarsely,  that  I  wanted  to  do  what  was 
right.  .  .  . 

General  Warringer  bought  Restwell. 

They  did  not  come  to  it  that  year.  Repairs  were 
in  order,  much  refitting  and  refurnishing.  General 
Warringer  or  Aunt  Harriet  came  from  time  to  time. 
But  for  the  greater  part  of  the  summer  Aunt  Sarah 
and  I  bided  alone  together  under  the  old  roof. 
Wilson  Reynolds  was  in  the  manager's  house,  and 
more  men  in  the  fields  than  I  ever  remembered  there. 
I  was  fond  of  Wilson,  but  I  did  not  work  with  him 
nor  with  Ahasuerus  and  Mandy's  Jim,  as  I  had  been 
used  to  doing.  I  offered  to  do  this,  but  Aunt  Harriet 
had  said,  with  decision,  "I  had  rather  you  wouldn't, 
Michael.  ..."  The  Dallases  would  have  had  Aunt 
Sarah  and  me  come  to  Flowerfield,  but  she  did  not 
wish  it,  and  I  did  not  .wish  it — not  this  summer. 
Had  I  felt  an  aching  absence  between  Miriam  and 
me  I  might  have  wished  it.  But  I  felt  Miriam  here 
— -here  at  Restwell.  That  was  a  passion  now  and 
again  of  the  body,  but  steadfastly — steadfastly — 
of  the  Idea. 

Aunt  Sarah  and  I  lived  dreamy  months  at  Rest- 
well.  I  say  "dreamy,"  and  yet  that  is  not  the 
word. 

What  is  the  word,  I  wonder? 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

I  lay  in  the  graveyard  under  the  oak.  Aunt 
Sarah,  who  had  been  cutting  dead  bloom  from  the 
Seven  Sisters'  rose,  came  and  sat  near  me.  A  fleet 
of  clouds  sailed  in  a  deep-blue  sky,  a  wind  tempered 
June  warmth.  Aunt  Sarah  looked  at  the  graves  and 
at  the  cross  without  a  mound,  and  then  into  the 
sky — not  up  into  the  sky,  but  into  the  levels  which 
ran  with  our  hilltop.  "The  dead  come  inside  of  us," 
she  said,  "come  home  inside  of  us!  Just  as  they 
feel  now  that  we  have  come  inside  them — come  home 
inside  them.  Waves  back  into  the  sea — our  sea — 
touching  everywhere!  .  .  .  What  is  accomplished, 
everywhere  and  always,  is  a  distillation,  an  elixir 
of  life,  free  to  all.  .  .  .  I've  reached  to  that  with  my 
finger-tips."  She  smiled,  and  her  smile,  I  thought, 
had  new  beauty,  the  dawn  of  a  golden  humor. 
"Just,"  she  said,  "as  you  all  have  beautifully,  lov 
ingly,  cared  for  my  staying  here,  I  touch  with  my 
finger-tips,  I  begin  to  draw  myself  to  where  it  truly 
does  not  much  matter  to  me  if  I  stay  or  go!  And 
that  is  not,"  she  said,  "that  I  do  not  truly  love  resting 
here  at  Restwell,  for  I  do. . . .  And  I  love  the  goodness 
of  all  of  you,  as  I  love  the  goodness  of  those  we  said 
were  dead."  She  watched  the  sky.  "It  is  simple 
when  once  you  find  the  key — your  own  key.  .  .  . 
The  ever-stored  elixir  of  life.  .  .  .  They  are  safe  with 
us,  as  we  are  safe  with  them." 

I  understood  her.  I  felt  that  way  at  times  about 
the  world,  near  and  far. 

At  any  rate,  I  ceased  to  trouble  about  Aunt 
Sarah's  happiness.  And,  this  summer,  I  struggled 
with  and  threw  a  ^qualid  jealousy  that  I  felt  of  the 
Warringers — more  of  Carter,  Royal,  and  Dorothea, 

114 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

than  of  the  parents  who  had  been  the  buyers  of 
Restwell.  My  mother  helped  me  here.  .  .  . 

I  was  to  return  to  the  university  and  end,  this 
year,  my  training  there.  By  next  June  I  should  be 
an  engineer,  earning  my  living,  mining  out  my 
career  .  .  .  somewhere.  Faring  forth,  independence, 
the  world  outside  the  boy's  round — all  these  stood 
and  sang  to  me,  no  evil  sirens!  I  was  bent  to  go 
with  them. 

And  then  in  late  August  Aunt  Kate  came  to  Rest- 
well.  With  her  came  Miriam. 

Miriam  was  slender,  dark  and  straight,  healthful, 
rightly  energized.  She  would  walk  ten  miles  with 
out  hesitation;  she  rode  well  as  she  danced  well, 
swam  and  skated  well.  She  had  wit,  could  tell  finely 
a  good  story;  could  mimic,  but  rarely  did  it  un 
kindly.  Back  of  her  wit  lay  a  clear  mind  and  beauti 
ful,  guided  moods.  She  had  a  hand  upon  herself. 

I  was  so  free  now  from  having  to  work  that  she 
and  I  might,  and  did,  roam  afar.  Aunt  Kate  watched 
us  go.  I  think  that  she  and  Major  Dallas  both 
guessed  that  we  fitted  together.  I  think  that  any 
skilled  soul  watching  us  would  know  that.  I  think 
that  Madam  Black  had  known  it  when  we  went  to 
school  to  her.  But  Aunt  Kate  and  Uncle  John  said 
nothing — and  doubtless  they  did  not  know  how 
closely  we  could  fit,  and  probably,  as  parents  will, 
they  thought  of  us  as  being  children  still. 

And  Miriam  and  I  had  not  yet  said,  "Let  us  be 
together  on  every  plane!" 

We  wandered  to  the  river,  we  followed  it  up  or 
down  in  a  boat  that  I  had.  I  got  a  horse  for  her 
from  Whitechurch,  and  she  upon  Elf  and  I  upon 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

Boreas  rode  to  far  points.  We  took  a  book  and 
read  aloud  to  each  other  in  the  garden,  in  the  sum 
mer-house,  or  in  the  shade  of  our  huge  linden-tree. 
In  the  evening  we  sat  by  the  white  pillars  upon 
the  porch,  the  steps  between  us,  and  watched  the 
fireflies. 

But  I  began  to  ache  for  Miriam  and  Miriam  for  me. 

Then,  suddenly,  Aunt  Kate  took  her  away.  She 
had  written,  I  think,  to  Uncle  John.  At  any  rate, 
she  had  a  letter  from  him  one  morning,  and,  an  hour 
later,  she  spoke  to  me  upon  the  porch  where  I  stood 
waiting  for  Miriam.  We  had  planned  to  spend  the 
morning  in  the  boat,  drifting  along  under  the  wil 
lows.  "  Major  Dallas  writes  that  company  is  coming 
and  that  Catherine  and  Lewis  are  running  wild. 
I've  determined,  Michael,  to  go  to-morrow  instead 
of  next  Monday.  Miriam  says  don't  wait  for  her 
to-day.  She's  helping  me  pack.*' 

Aunt  Kate's  voice  was  perfectly  kind,  but  I  caught 
the  thread  of  decision.  "You  are  children.  You 
are  first  cousins.  Do  not  let  us  kindle  here  a  great 
fire  until  we  know  where  we  are  and  what  we  are 
about!  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  brought 
Miriam." 

So  they  went  the  next  day. 

The  night  after  she  was  gone  I  sat  by  the  window 
in  my  room  and  laid  plans.  .  .  .  When  I  left  the 
university  I  should  be  twenty-one.  Having  studied 
hard,  having  had  some  equipment  to  bring  to  the 
studying,  having  incentive,  having  will,  I  meant, 
when  that  formal  preparation  was  over,  to  work 
hard,  to  earn,  to  make  my  name  to  be  spoken  when 
experts  spoke  of  engineering.  I  should  be  away 

116 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

from  Restwell — away  from  the  county,  and  from 
Flowerfield's  county — away,  perhaps,  from  Vir 
ginia.  .  .  .  Engineering:  that  was  the  art  of  turning 
streams  and  reservoirs  of  power  to  human  use.  .  .  . 
General  Warringer  had  vaguely  spoken  of  coal-lands, 
South  and  West,  in  which  he  was  interested.  I  did 
not  know  where  I  might  go.  Very  good !  But  before 
I  went  Miriam  and  I  must  put  forth  in  words  that 
we  wished  to  marry.  Put  it  forth  for  ourselves, 
Aunt  Kate  and  Uncle  John,  everybody.  .  .  .  What 
would  be  the  salary  that  we  could  live  upon,  hardily 
brought  up,  knowing  how  to  be  simple  and  to  do 
things  ourselves,  as  we  did?  I  pondered,  then  set 
a  figure.  How  long — three  years,  four  years,  five 
years — before  I  should  earn  it?  Certainly  we  must 
wait.  ...  But  when  I  went  to  Flowerfield  next 
summer  we  were  going  to  talk  about  it.  I  was 
settled  as  to  that. 

I  sat  in  the  window.  The  moon  shone  bright,  the 
night  was  filled  with  the  papery,  minute,  ecstatic 
voice  of  an  insect  world.  Beauty  flowed  in  upon  me. 
...  I  saw  that  beauty  was  wide  love. 

My  mother  came  toward  me,  and  with  her  my 
father.  I  saw  them  as  lovers,  and  behind  them 
others,  and  others,  and  others.  Everything,  every 
body  loved.  I  touched  the  garden  of  it  through  the 
universe.  The  universe  was  the  garden. 

The  sense  of  Drama  lifted  and  surged  in  me.  I 
ached  with  the  falling  away  of  love — for  and  with 
the  dying  suns  .  .  .  cold  .  .  .  dark.  I  endeavored 
for  and  with  all  who  endeavored  to  maintain  radi 
ance,  or,  darkened,  endeavored  to  regain,  relume. 
I  knew  great  bliss  when  the  energy  streamed  and 

117 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

lifted.  All  love.  .  .  .  Red  suns — golden  suns — great, 
white,  intense  suns,  the  high  lovers,  who  loved  lovers, 
loved  love.  . . .  The  highest  Sun — nurse,  mother  and 
father  and  lover  of  all — the  reaper,  the  gatherer, 
feaster,  the  Eternal  Laborer  and  Enjoyer,  the  im 
mortal  Lover  and  Beloved  together! 

I  sat  in  the  window  and  knew  old  Vaughan's 
"bright  shoots  of  everlastingness." 


118 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  following  summer  John  and  I,  Phillip  Garrett, 
Royal  Warringer,  Conrad  Conrad,  and  a  num 
ber  beside,  graduated  from  the  university.  John 
saw  before  him  the  management  of  Flowerfield,  and, 
if  he  cared  for  it,  a  partnership  with  his  father. 
Phillip  was  for  the  law.  But  for  him  the  law  would 
prove  but  a  stepping-stone  to  political  life.  Conrad, 
who  had  a  little  money,  was  boldly,  flat-footedly, 
for  travel.  When  the  money  gave  out  he  proposed 
journalism.  Royal  had  no  immediate  plans. 

Major  Dallas  came  to  the  university  to  see  John 
and  me  step  from  formal  tuition  into  a  massive,  un 
official  school.  How  green  was  the  lawn,  the  trees, 
how  white  the  pillars,  how  warmly  fragrant  the  air, 
how  kindly,  intoxicating,  the  ceremonies,  the  fare 
wells!  .  .  .  Arrived  the  moment  when  Uncle  John, 
knocking  at  my  door,  was  asked  to  enter  and  given 
the  one  good  chair.  I  leaned  against  the  mantel. 
"I  wanted  a  moment  to  ourselves,  Michael.  .  .  . 
You've  done  mighty  well!  We're  proud  of  you. 
We're  sure  of  you." 

I  thanked  him. 

"Has  Warringer  spoken  to  you?" 

"Yes.  He  says  I  may  have  the  place  of  assistant 
engineer  at  Landon." 

119 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"Just  so.     Does  it  please  you?" 
I  thought.    "Yes.    It's  a  long  way  off,  but  they 
say  it's  a  big  field.    I  should  wish  to  earn  promotion, 


sir." 


"If  you  earn  it  you'll  get  it.  The  Landon  concern 
has  alliances  all  over  the  country.  You'll  find  pas 
sages  open.  Well!  Do  your  derndest,  boy!  Keep 
honest — keep  kind — keep  open  to  the  big  waves. 
You'll  go,  Carter  says,  to  Landon  in  the  fall.  He 
proposed  that  in  the  mean  time  you  come  to  them 
at  Restwell." 

"Yes." 

"I  told  Carter  that  it  was  natural  that  that  might 
be  painful  to  you.  I  suggested  that  you  go  to  them 
for  two  or  three  weeks,  but  then  come  to  Flowerfield." 

"Thank  you,  uncle.  Conrad  is  going  on  a  riding 
trip  from  one  end  of  the  valley  to  the  other.  He 
had  asked  me  to  go  with  him,  and  I  should  like  that. 
Then  if  I  might  stay  ten  days  at  Restwell,  and  then 
come  to  Flowerfield — " 

"All  that's  feasible.    All  right!" 

I  went  and  sat  by  the  table  near  him.  "I  want  to 
come  to  Flowerfield,  uncle,  but  I  want  you  and  Aunt 
Kate  to  know  something  first.  ...  I  love  Miriam. 
I  want  to  marry  her — just  as  soon  as  I  can  make 
and  keep  a  home.  We  haven't  spoken  about  it,  but 
I  am  sure  that  she  loves  me  and  wants  to  marry  me." 

Uncle  John,  his  elbow  on  the  table,  shaded  his 
eyes  with  his  hand.  We  sat  very  still.  Laughter 
of  men  and  women  floated  over  the  lawn,  June 
groups  going  by.  ...  I  experienced,  suddenly, 
strongly,  the  feeling  of  Miriam  with  me.  I  could 
have  said,  "Miriam!"  I  could  have  expected  to 

120 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

hear  her  answer,  "Michael!"  Uncle  John  dropped 
his  hand.  "Well,  I  can't  say  that  I  am  surprised, 
for  I'm  not.  Neither  Kate  nor  I.  ...  Any  one  seeing 
you  together  must  see  that  you  and  Miriam  are 
happy  together.  Your  differences  don't  seem  to 
make  any  difference.  .  .  .  There's  a  feeling  against 
first  cousins  marrying.  I  don't  know  whether  it's 
right  or  not." 

"It's  right  for  us  to  marry,"  I  said. 

He  smiled.  "I  suppose  any  cousin-couple  would 
say  that!  .  .  .  Well,  I  shouldn't  put  it  in  your  way 
if  you  truly  love  each  other,  and  I  believe  that  you 
do.  But  you'll  have  to  wait,  Michael.  I  wouldn't 
hear  to  your  marrying  before  you  were  twenty-six." 

I  took  his  hand  and  the  eyes  of  both  of  us  were 
wet.  "It's  all  right.  It's  all  right !"  he  said.  "You'll 
come  to  Flowerfield,  and  you  and  Miriam  may  talk 
it  out  together.  .  .  .  The  world's  built  so — we  take 
our  turn  at  the  building — to  be  good  builders,  that's 
the  desideratum!" 

I  went  home  with  Conrad  from  the  university. 
General  Warringer  and  Aunt  Harriet  were  so  good 
as  to  send  Boreas  to  me  there,  Ahasuerus  bringing 
him.  Conrad's  home  held  sisters  and  genial  par 
ents.  We  had  a  week  of  country  gaiety,  after  which 
we  set  forth,  like  knights  of  old,  upon  that  planned 
riding- jaunt.  We  meant  to  see  good  part  of  our 
state,  to  wander  for  a  month.  Around  and  about, 
we  might  cover  some  hundreds  of  miles.  Riding 
so  was  an  old  fashion  in  Virginia,  beginning  now  to 
fade  with  the  tournaments,  the  barbecues,  the  camp- 
meetings,  and  twenty  other  features  of  the  fields 
behind  us. 

121 


MICHAEI/FORTH 

Conrad  was  Conrad  Conrad,  though  now  he 
thought  that  he  was  Poe  come  again,  and  now  darkly 
hinted  at  some  earlier  wight.  Dark,  not  tall,  slight, 
he  was  intent  upon  wearing  his  hair  somewhat  long 
and  upon  growing  on  lip  and  chin  an  imperial  like 
Poe's.  He  wished,  besides,  to  wear  a  cloak  instead 
of  an  overcoat.  Occasionally  he  tried  to  get  drunk, 
but  he  did  not  really  like  whisky.  As  years  went 
on  he  dropped  the  Poe  and  was  content  to  be  Con 
rad.  The  latter  had  idiosyncrasies  enough  to  please 
him,  without  borrowing. 

Conrad  and  I  had  great  bouts  of  talk,  alternating 
with  as  equally  great,  long  and  significant  riots  of 
silence.  In  some  things  each  was  the  extreme  of 
the  other  and  so  we  met.  I  liked  him,  and  I  suppose 
that  he  liked  me.  I  did  not  have  to  see  everything 
as  he  saw  it,  but  it  interested  me,  what  he  saw. 

So  we  rode  green  miles  through  Virginia  in  very 
good  fellowship.  The  country  lay  beautiful,  around, 
behind,  before  us.  We  slept  in  small  towns  of  red 
brick  and  frame  houses,  abounding  in  trees,  or  in 
farm-houses  that  were  taking  on  a  prosperous  air. 
By  1882  Virginia  wore  a  different  look  from  that 
war-worn  look  I  could  remember.  The  South  was 
beginning  to  prosper.  As  we  rode  we  saw  schools 
building,  paint  going  on  houses,  fences  standing 
whole,  roads  slowly  bettering.  Persons  whom  we 
met  bore  a  cheerful  aspect.  An  old  farmer  told  us: 
1 '  Yes,  by  gosh !  Times  air  surely  improving.  Reckon 
we've  pulled  out  of  the  mudhole!" 

Conrad  grumbled.  We  had  another  long,  free 
silence,  then  out  he  came  with  his  advocacy  of  the 
crumbled  and  broken-down.  He  was  a  lover,  I 

122 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

told  him,  of  vestigial  remains.  He  grinned.  "Well, 
you  go  in  for  germinal  things !  If  I  see  the  one,  you 
go  poking  around  for  the  other!  You  don't  rest  in 
this  landscape,  either.  If  it  wasn't  for  your  very 
comfortable,  earthy  sense  of  earthy  drama  you'd 
float — or  perhaps  fly!" 

"If  you  hadn't  built  a  raft  out  of  a  kind  heart  and 
a  sense  of  harmony — down  you'd  sink!" 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  Look  at  that  terrible 
house!  They've  fresh  painted  the  house,  and  not 
only  that,  they've  painted  the  fence  and  the  horse 
block  and  the  well,  and  not  only  that,  they've 
painted  the  trees!" 

"They've  mended  the  chimney,  too!" 

"There's  a  great  career  in  truly  going  in  for 
dilapidation." 

I  whistled  as  I  rode;  then  I  said,  "If  you'd  turn 
you  might  become  Lord  Mayor  of  London." 

"That  is,  there's  as  vast  the  other  way." 

"Vaster." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Conrad.  "At  any 
rate,  I  don't  like  paint  on  trees,  and  I  don't  believe 
that  you  do,  either." 

He  showed  me  much  as  we  traveled.  He  had  a 
gift  for  the  elusive,  the  just  to  be  perceived  then 
vanished.  "Thought  forms — affection  forms,"  he 
called  them,  even  then.  His  range  of  color  was 
extraordinary.  He  showed  me  hues  and  combina 
tions  of  which  I  had  not  been  aware.  He  saw  some 
thing  through  the  dismal  and  ugly.  He  had  an  in 
flux  of  enthusiasm  for  neglected  territories  which 
removed  the  neglect,  gave  them  life,  made  them 
shine  with  a  weird,  metallic  or  vegetative  beauty. 

123 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

The  same  thing  poured  over  a  decrepit  horse,  over 
wandering  swine,  over  a  cur  dog  which  ran  along 
the  roadside.  At  last  I  caught  the  key — the  gipsy, 
wild,  aromatic,  piteous  values.  First  and  last, 
Conrad  gave  me  much.  Everybody  and  everything 
gave  me  much. 

We  had  no  hard  and  fast  route.  From  the  Valley 
pike,  up  and  down  which  had  marched  the  weary 
armies,  blue  and  gray,  we  turned  aside  through 
New  Market  Gap  to  the  Caverns  of  Luray.  We  also 
went  to  Wier's  Cave,  near  Staunton.  After  that, 
riding  southward,  we  visited  the  Natural  Bridge. 

We  felt  what  it  was,  in  these  caverns,  to  be  in 
the  deeps  of  the  earth.  We  breathed  the  unmoving 
air,  mortally  still  and  cold;  tasted  beyond  our  candle 
rim  the  thick  dark;  saw  the  stony  shapes,  the  sta 
lactites  and  stalagmites.  When  we  struck  them,  un 
couth  echoes  were  about  us.  There  flowed  under 
ground  water.  We  felt  dark  height  above,  and 
guessed  that  there  was  a  roof  to  us  that  was  a 
floor  to  beings  who  walked  in  a  different  world. 
When  we  came  out  the  rushing  air>  the  heat,  the 
light,  were  for  an  appreciable  time  excessive,  painful. 
It  had  been  Conrad's  whim  to  stay  within  the  earth 
longer — much  longer — than  did  the  usual  visitor, 
and  he  had  paid  our  guide  to  cease  descriptions  and 
engage  in  silence. 

Coming  to  the  Natural  Bridge,  we  found  there  a 
hotel  filled  with  summer  folk,  and  among  them  two 
or  three  acquaintances.  We  were  welcomed  with 
empressement — young  men  at  summer  resorts  are 
always  so  welcomed.  We  saw  pretty  girls  upon  the 
porches,  flitting  in  and  out  of  rooms.  We  caught  a 

124 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

glimpse  of  a  tennis-court.  Colored  musicians,  some 
where  in  the  background,  were  tuning  fiddles. 
Almost  immediately  a  great  supper-bell  rang.  The 
pretty  girls  came  into  the  dining-room  in  thin  silk 
or  fine  muslin  dresses.  If  I  remember  correctly,  it 
was  the  period  of  the  polonaise.  Conrad's  and  my 
acquaintances  introduced  us  to  heads  of  families 
and  to  their  bright  daughters.  It  appeared  that  there 
was  to  be  a  dance,  and  that  we  were  counted  upon. 
Fortunately,  we  had  each  with  us  a  small  portman 
teau.  We  danced,  and  there  was  a  long  porch  for 
promenading,  and  steps  and  dusky  angles  where 
groups  of  two  might  sit  and  murmur,  and  starlight 
and  a  midnight  moon,  and  around  all  the  place  the 
herding  shapes  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  The  fiddlers 
fiddled,  we  danced  the  lancers  and  we  waltzed. 
There  was  punch.  But  dancing  and  all  were  held 
within  bounds.  Conrad  and  I  had  been  in  bed  two 
hours  when  the  cocks  began  to  crow  and  the  sum 
mer  dawn  overlaid  stars  and  moon. 

The  coming  day  was  the  Fourth  of  July.  During 
and  after  the  war  the  South  had  scantly  or  not  at 
all  celebrated  this  day.  But  now  it  had  come  to 
be  that  the  Fourth  had  stolen  back,  and  this 
summer  throng  was  going  to  celebrate  it. 

In  the  afternoon  the  country  people  were  expected 
to  come  in.  The  hotel  chanced  temporarily  to  shelter 
a  political  light.  The  light  had  consented  to  shine. 
We  were  to  have  a  Fourth  of  July  oration.  At  night 
a  novel  thing  would  be  done.  Paper  lanterns  were 
being  hung  from  the  hotel  to  the  gorge  of  Cedar 
Creek  and  down  the  steep  path  to  the  gorge  floor 
where  you  stood  and  gazed  upon  the  mighty  rock 

125 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

bridge.  Bonfires  were  heaping,  above  and  below, 
and  the  bridge  was  to  be  illuminated  by  Bengal 
lights.  There  would  be  fireworks. 

Conrad  and  I,  descending,  found  ourselves  counted 
upon  in  the  office,  upon  the  long  porch,  in  the  dining- 
room.  There  was  to  be  a  ramble  under  the  bridge, 
to  the  cave,  as  far  as  the  Lace  Falls.  Twenty  pretty 
girls  and  certainly  not,  without  us,  twenty  swains! 
I  may  say  at  once  that  it  would  have  been  a  shock 
to  us  if  we  had  not  been  counted  upon.  .  .  .  My 
picture  of  the  Natural  Bridge  of  Virginia  remains 
wreathed  about  with  morning-glories. 

Returning  to  the  hotel,  we  had  dinner  with  Fourth 
of  July  features. 

By  two  o'clock  country  phaetons,  carry-alls,  bug 
gies,  sulkies,  were  arriving,  together  with  horsemen 
and  walkers.  A  pleasant,  friendly  country  crowd 
spread  itself  over  the  lawn.  Without  the  white 
social  pale,  within  their  own  social  pale,  drawn  under 
their  own  clump  of  trees,  there  had  gathered,  too, 
to  hear  the  speaking,  a  number  of  colored  folk. 
Speaking  over,  they  would  not  further  mix,  but 
would  go  on  to  their  church,  some  distance  away, 
where  under  the  pine-trees  they  would  have  their 
own  festival.  At  night  they  might  come  back  and 
look  at  the  bridge  when  it  was  illuminated.  Where 
the  two  colors  came  into  chance  neighborhood  there 
fell  neither  harshness  nor  sullenness  of  greeting. 
That  was  due,  perhaps,  on  both  sides,  to  some 
genialness  of  inner  climate. 

Apparently  the  management  at  the  Natural  Bridge 
would  outdo  itself.  It  had  provided  a  brass  band, 
though  a  diminutive  brass  band.  Now  this  dis- 

126 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

coursed  music,  " Dixie,"  "The  Star-spangled  Ban 
ner,"  " Yankee  Doodle."  The  war  was  over  by 
seventeen  years. 

The  orator  appeared.  He  had  the  build — tall, 
spare  frame,  great  chest,  smooth  face,  hair  worn 
just  a  little  longer  than  was  the  fashion.  He  had 
the  voice.  He  had  the  tradition.  And,  a  most  for 
tunate  plus,  he  had  a  fair  share  of  insight  and 
foresight. 

He  spoke  from  the  steps  of  the  hotel,  the  summer 
guests  massed  in  the  porch  to  right  and  left,  the  coun 
try  gathering  taking  the  foreground  of  grass  and 
driveway,  checkered  with  light  and  shade.  The 
brass  band  ended  "Hail,  Columbia,"  a  gentleman 
of  the  old  school  introduced  the  orator.  We  all 
applauded.  Lord  Orator  bowed  to  all.  .  .  .  Virginia 
and  the  Revolution — Rockbridge  County — Nature's 
Triumphal  Arch  at  hand — George  Washington  who 
had  climbed  and  cut  his  name  far  up  upon  it — 
Thomas  Jefferson  who  often  had  ridden  here  to 
gaze  upon  it,  who  had  called  it  in  his  Notes  "the 
most  sublime  of  Nature's  works" — soldiers  and 
statesmen  who  had  gazed  upon  it — and  now  we,  my 
friends — 

Presently  he  was  fingering  the  ancient  thread  of 
triumph  over  old  Mother  England.  It  was  in  the 
Fourth  of  July  repertory  of  orators.  This  one  over 
did  it  less  than  others  I  have  heard.  Nor  was  he 
wildly,  loosely,  childishly  spread-eagle.  A  change 
had  come  or  was  coming  to  the  best  of  the  type. 
There  was  state  spread-eagleism  and  United  States 
spread-eagleism.  In  Virginia  inevitably  still,  at 
this  period,  it  was  state  spread-eagleism — Southern 

127 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

spread-eagleism.  But  he  muted  it,  used  the  soft 
pedal.  Even  when  he  talked  of  the  Confederacy. 
He  did  not  fight  the  war  all  over  again.  He  quoted 
Wordsworth — 

"  Old,  unhappy,  far-off  things 
And  battles  long  ago,'\ 

and  left  it  at  that.  Presently  he  really  was  panegyr 
izing  the  whole  country.  It  had  to  be  a  panegyric, 
being  the  Fourth  of  July.  He  had  a  word  of  good 
for  New  England,  two  for  the  Middle  States,  three 
for  the  unrolling  West.  Vaguely  might  be  seen  above 
him  the  angel  of  rapprochement,  of  unification,  He 
spoke  more  and  more  appreciatively  of  the  United 
States  of  America.  A  sense  of  enlarged  being,  a  sense 
of  nation,  really  stretched  and  shimmered  around 
us,  through  us. 

Emerson  and  Longfellow  had  died  this  year.  The 
Fourth  of  July  speaker  at  the  Natural  Bridge  in 
Virginia  gave  them  a  meed.  They  were  "ours."  The 
Greely  Expedition  battled  with  Arctic  seas.  He 
spoke  of  "when  we  gain  the  Pole."  There  were 
Apache  risings  in  Arizona.  He  spoke  of  "our"  settlers 
out  there.  The  East  was  beginning,  accumulatively, 
to  know  labor  troubles.  He  said, ' '  I  don't  see  the  out 
come  for  the  country,  but  we'll  hope  for  the  best" — 
not,  of  course,  that  he  said  it  short  and  unadorned 
like  that.  "The  country."  The  phrase,  slowly, 
bashfully,  came  in  in  place  of  "My  state." 

There  occurred  even  an  adumbration  of  a  wider 
unity.  He  closed  his  hour's  speech  with  something 
about  "mankind." 

There  was  applause.  The  band  played  "Dixie," 
"Yankee  Doodle,"  "The  Star-spangled  Banner." 

128 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

A  lawyer  from  Lexington  spoke.  Plans  and  pur 
poses  of  very  huge  moment  of  the  Democratic  party. 
There  was  applause.  The  band  played  "Home,  Sweet 
Home." 

Dusk  sifted  into  the  air,  but  with  warmth  yet  and 
a  faint  glowing.  The  Chinese  lanterns  were  lighted, 
there  leaped  a  bonfire  at  the  rim  of  the  ravine.  A 
ragged  procession,  here  thick,  here  dwindled  to  an 
Indian  file,  crossed  the  plateau  of  the  hotel  and 
cottages  and,  beginning  to  descend,  dipped  beneath 
conifers — Thuja  occidentalis,  arbor- vitae — which  may 
have  been  standing  when  Columbus  discovered 
America.  Some  of  the  figures  themselves  bore  lan 
terns;  below  by  the  creek  another  bonfire  flamed. 
Above,  around,  below,  the  craggy  gorge  with  the 
bridge  of  rock  was  thrown  into  moving  shadows  and 
faint  ruddy  light. 

The  procession,  breaking,  established  itself  wher 
ever  was  vantage-ground.  Conrad  and  I,  counted 
upon  still,  found  a  nook  for  four.  Up  and  down 
spread  a  Dore  illustration.  The  fireworks  began, 
sent  from  the  plateau  above.  The  band  still  played. 
Roman  candles  shook  forth  bright  planets.  Rockets 
rising  with  energy  curved  far  up,  broke  in  stars  red, 
green,  and  silver.  The  Chinese  lanterns  bobbed  with 
delight.  Up  and  down,  bass,  barytone,  tenor,  con 
tralto,  soprano,  voices  and  voices  rose  into  a  chirping, 
singing  sound.  The  great-boled  trees,  ever  green,  may 
have  thought  of  old  Indian  acquaintances,  of  bear 
and  wolf  and  panther,  of  parent  and  grandparent 
trees  who  held  tradition  of  still  a  different  earth. 
And  yet  all  through  had  held  the  chirping,  singing 
sound.  Old  and  old  and  old — we  are  so  old ! 

129 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

Down  by  the  creekside  dark  figures  touched  off 
the  colored  light.  The  water,  the  tree  masses,  the 
seamed  cliff,  the  arch  of  rock  two  hundred  feet  above 
the  stream  it  spanned,  turned  fire-red,  turned  living 
orange.  Ah !  Ah ! 

The  lights  sank.  A  final  lonely  rocket  burst  into 
a  last  group  of  stars.  The  band  had  done  its  duty 
and  its  wages'  worth;  it  wasn't  going  to  play  any 
more.  In  the  Chinese  lanterns  the  candles  guttered 
down.  There  was  indicated  much  helping  up  steep 
ways  of  those  who  counted  upon  us.  The  trees  of 
life  saw  us  go,  settling  back  to  their  cool  dark  dream 
under  the  stars.  Back  upon  the  level  before  the 
hotel  the  wheels  of  all  the  country  vehicles  seemed 
in  motion.  Shadowy  horsemen  pushed  away.  After 
the  Bengal  lights,  all  the  dark  seemed  spectral. 

In  the  morning  Conrad  and  I,  too,  rode  away. 
We  quitted  the  place  in  the  sunshine,  after  breakfast, 
the  porch  filled  with  genial  summerers.  The  twenty 
pretty  maidens  waved  farewell,  the  young  men 
whom  we  left  behind  us  grinned  cheerfully.  We 
looked  as  well  in  the  saddle  as  we  knew  how — we 
rode  away,  riding  over  the  Natural  Bridge,  plunging 
into  the  green  day.  We  were  for  the  Peaks  of 
Otter. 


130 


CHAPTER  XIV 

/CROSSING  James  River  in  an  ancient  flat-bot- 
^-^  tomed,  open  ferry-boat,  we  rode  at  leisure 
through  the  July  weather,  dined  at  a  farm-house, 
and  in  the  golden  afternoon  light,  by  a  road  suf 
ficiently  long,  rough,  and  steep,  climbed  the  moun 
tain.  Well  below  the  rocky  top  we  found  a  make 
shift  shed  with  spring  water,  and  with  hay  piled  in 
a  corner.  Boreas  and  Conrad's  mare  Jenny  we  left 
here  and  climbed  on  afoot.  At  the  top  stood  a  cabin 
and  stood  watching  us  the  solitary  caretaker.  He 
greeted  us,  "Evenin'l" 

"Evening!"  we  answered. 

"I'm  not,"  he  said,  "the  regular  man.  He's 
taking  his  Fourth  of  July.  But  I  reckon  I  kin  make 
you  comfortable." 

The  hut  was  not  remarkably  clean,  but  we  would 
not  let  that  trouble  us.  The  man  set  about  filling 
the  stove  with  wood.  "You-all  take  coffee?  I  kin 
make  good  coffee." 

We  left  him  making  it  and  went  without  to  see 
the  sunset.  A  great  boulder  propped  us.  Four 
thousand  feet  in  air,  we  looked  and  saw  the  cone 
shadow  of  the  mountain  lying  purple  upon  the  land. 
We  sat  and  gazed.  "We've  got  a  fair  earth!  Look 
at  the  geometry  of  it — the  circle  and  the  cone." 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Conrad  answered,  "It's  a  'tarnation  queer  place 
-old  earth!" 

The  sun  sank,  but  great  rays,  lanes  of  light  in 
the  sky,  spread  like  an  open  fan.  The  Chinese 
lanterns  of  last  night  came  into  mind.  ' '  Variousness !" 
said  Conrad.  "My  God!  what  an  Artist !" 

The  air  changed  its  quality,  a  carpet  of  violets 
covered  the  earth,  Venus  was  born  in  the  western 
gold  sea.  The  caretaker  spoke  from  behind  us. 
"I  thought  maybe  you'd  like  your  coffee  and  bread 
out  here,"  and  put  down  upon  the  rock  a  battered 
tray.  There  were  three  cups  and  three  plates  and 
we  sat  and  ate  together.  He  was  a  man  of  thirty- 
five,  long,  tawny,  with  blue  eyes  and  a  drooping 
tawny  mustache.  He  had  a  drawling  voice  like 
dropping  honey.  When  we  had  eaten  and  drunk 
he  piled  the  dishes  upon  the  tray  and  set  it  aside, 
then  leaning  back  against  the  boulder,  lit  a  brier- 
root  pipe.  By  now  he  knew  our  names  and  whence 
we  had  ridden  and  where  we  were  going.  We  knew, 
too,  his  name,  and  that  he  had  a  bit  of  a  farm,  and 
that  he  had  been  in  the  war  the  last  year,  when  he 
was  seventeen,  and  had  been  wounded  at  Cold 
Harbor,  and  hadn't  any  education  beyond  a  little 
free  schooling,  but  wished  that  he  had.  He  was 
married  and  had  children. 

There  was  yet  coral  in  the  sky.  Below  us,  in  the 
vast  expanse  of  hill  and  vale  flattened  by  our  height, 
lights,  separate  and  small,  were  twinkling  forth. 
The  day  had  been  warm,  and  the  night  up  here 
struck  only  pleasantly  cool,  like  July  water.  "You 
see  a  right  fair  slice  of  Virginia,"  said  the  man. 
"Thar!  Did  you  see  that  shooting-star?" 

132 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

It  was  a  considerable  meteor  and  dripped  gold .  Ship 
and  wake  went  out.  "You've  been  to  the  university,*' 
said  the  man.  "I  wish  you'd  tell  me  what  that  is — " 

One  of  us  told  him  what  the  text-books  said. 
"That's  interestm',"  he  remarked  and  smoked  his 
pipe.  "I  take  spells  of  wonderin'.  ...  A  smashed-up 
earth — a-shootin'  for  ages  in  little  pieces  here  and 
there  as  it  gets  drawn.  Well — " 

He  and  Conrad  smoked.  I  did  not  smoke.  We 
all  watched  the  sky  where  now  the  stars  were  press 
ing  thickly.  "I  was  raised  a  Baptist,"  said  the 
caretaker.  "I've  got  an  inquirin'  mind,  and  I  gather 
that  all  kinds  of  strange  notions  are  goin'  around. 
Do  you  believe  in  damnation?" 

I  said  I  didn't — not  in  the  old  way.  Conrad  said 
he  didn't  know.  I  said  that  I  thought  I  believed 
in  occasional,  finite  damnations — temporary  damna 
tions,  so  to  speak. 

"But  they  could  last  a  long  time?" 

I  agreed  as  to  that.  "And  one  might  tumble 
into  them  again  and  again." 

"But  you  don't  believe  in  hell-fire?" 

I  said  that  I  thought  that  was  a  metaphor.  But 
that  it  might  get  mighty  near  reality  sometimes. 

"Damned  near!"  said  the  man.  "Well,  who  do 
you  think  damns  you — or  saves  you?" 

I  said  that  I  thought  that  I  did. 

"That's  the  way  I  twist,"  said  the  tawny  man. 
"Times  air  changing!  We're  like  the  past  and  we 
ain't  just  like  it.  ...  Old  Daddy  Religion's  got  a 
son  that  appears  to  him  somehow  different!  Might 
as  well  own  him.  That's  what  I  tell  the  preachers 
when  they  get  after  me." 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Conrad  yawned. 

"I  heard  much  talk  of  it  about  and  about, 
But  where  I  went  in  I  still  came  out! 

Listen  to  the  locusts  in  those  bushes !    They  haven't 
stopped  talking  since  Troy  fell!" 

"I've  got  a  habit  of  thinkin*  and  thinkin',"  said 
the  tawny  man.  "Kind  of  rememberin'  and  re 
memberin'.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  I  believe  in  kindness  I" 

We  looked  again  around  us — Scorpio  in  the  south, 
the  Bear  in  the  north,  the  Eagle  in  the  east,  the 
Lion  in  the  west,  and  right  overhead  the  Crown. 
The  tawny  man  took  up  the  tray  of  dishes  and  we 
all  moved  to  the  cabin.  I  have  slept  in  better  beds, 
but  Conrad  and  I  were  tired  and  we  slept.  Waking 
once  or  twice,  I  heard  without  the  window  the 
locusts  still  talking. 

We  were  up  for  the  sunrise.  The  man  called  us 
while  the  stars  still  lighted  the  sky,  and  gave  us 
hot  coffee  and  corn-cakes.  He  had  been  down,  he 
told  us,  to  the  horses  and  had  watered  and  fed 
them.  We  ate  and  drank,  the  thin  light  stealing  in. 
Then  we  went  out  again  to  our  boulder,  but  faced  now 
the  east.  Silver — silver  and  amethyst — amethyst;  a 
cloud  shoal  turning  gold,  in  the  forest  below  us  bird 
song,  then  the  sun  and  the  hollow  of  the  air  and 
the  earth  beneath  warm  and  sheen.  ...  So  we  said 
good-by  to  the  tawny  man,  paid  our  reckoning,  ran 
down  the  rough  way  to  Boreas  and  Jenny,  and  in 
the  saddle  again  departed  the  mountain. 

We  rode  and  we  rode  on  through  Virginia,  and  we 
saw  our  state  a  lovely  country,  aiming  at  being 
lovelier — lovelier — lovelier,  body  and  soul! 

134 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

In  two  weeks  more  Conrad  and  I  bade  each  other 
good-by.  He  rode  to  his  own  home,  and  I  to  Rest- 
well. 

I  came  to  Restwell  in  a  shimmery,  warm  after 
noon.  Uncle  Carter  and  Aunt  Harriet  were  very 
kind. 

I  had  my  old  room.  ...  I  rose  when  the  cocks  were 
crowing,  dressed,  and,  letting  myself  out,  went  over 
the  gray  fields  to  the  graveyard.  I  saw  the  dawn 
from  there,  lying  with  my  head  upon  my  mother's 
grave. 

That  afternoon  I  came  here  again  with  Aunt 
Sarah.  .  .  .  Aunt  Sarah  and  I  clung  together,  though 
not  with  any  bodily  touch.  It  was  one  of  her 
"ways,"  the  standing  aside  from  all  that.  I  never 
saw  her  give  physical  caress  or  embrace,  or  invite 
caress  or  embrace.  But  her  spirit  hovered,  inclosed, 
was  kind. 

She  said  that  she  was  happy — that  they  let  alone 
her  island,  respected  territorial  waters.  "They're 
the  best — the  very  best — of  Nineveh,  Babylon,  and 
Rome !  They  let  me  go  softly  in  my  far  Atlan tides.'* 
We  sat  beneath  the  oak,  and  then  she  took  the 
dead  bloom  from  the  roses,  and  I  held  the  basket 
for  her  as  of  old. 

Dorothea,  Carter,  and  Royal  were  at  home. 
Royal  was  more  to  me  than  were  the  others — for  all 
that  there  was  a  picket  fence  somewhere  which, 
from  his  side,  he  refused  to  cross,  and  I  from  my  side 
refused.  But  there  was  something  of  the  colossal 
in  Royal  that  must  be  recognized.  He  made  me 
think  of  a  vast,  tireless,  mental  rather  than  physical 
bull-god — Apis  who  was  acting  very  simply,  accord- 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

ing  to  his  nature,  and  yet  was  big  .  .  .  and  feared  .  .  . 
and  sacrificed  to,  and  on  some  sides  certainly  might 
be  admired — and  even  loved. 

I  had  a  strange  feeling  about  Royal.  Now  he 
attracted  me  and  now  he  repelled.  Either  way,  I 
understood  him.  It  seemed  to  me  that  far  down 
time  we  had  been  nearer  together.  I  did  not  seek 
him  again,  but  I  felt  the  pull  of  him. 

Carter  was  a  smaller  person  altogether — amiable, 
a  little  weak.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow,  with  an 
agreeable  voice,  and  he  danced  well  and  was  talka 
tive  and  Aunt  Harriet's  idol.  His  father  was  am 
bitious  for  him,  his  eldest  son,  named  for  him.  But 
by  degrees  it  grew  evident  that  Carter  might  adorn 
a  fortune,  or  a  society  built  on  fortunes,  but  that 
he  could  neither  make  a  fortune  nor  strongly  help 
others  to  make  one.  He  was  able  to  spend.  He  was 
good-natured,  and  I  do  not  know  that  he  ever  did 
any  especial  harm. 

Dorothea  was  another  proposition.  I  did  not 
know  whether  I  liked  or  disliked  Dorothea.  She 
had  a  sultry  beauty,  and  an  arrogance  that  fitted 
her  like  a  low-lying  haze,  a  misty,  heat  atmos 
phere.  Out  of  this  started  at  times  twisted  beau 
ties  of  thought  or  deed.  .  .  . 

My  cousins  meant  to  be  kind  and  were  kind. 
There  must  have  been  a  general  agreement  that 
it  would  be  hard  for  me  to  return  so  to  Restwell, 
and  that  it  must  be  made  to  seem  like  home  and 
family.  They  did  their  best.  I  was  not,  I  hope, 
ungrateful. 

There  were  guests  besides  myself.  The  Warringers 
kept  the  house  filled,  entertained  with  something  of 

136 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

the  old  before-the-war  lavishness.  Here  were  two 
sons  and  a  daughter  who  must  be  persuaded  not  to 
miss  the  Old  White  and  Old  Point.  Aunt  Harriet 
liked,  too,  many  and  young  faces  about  her. 

Twice  or  thrice  I  rode  into  Whitechurch.  There  I 
saw  Mr.  Millwood  and  everybody  else — and  Doctor 
Young,  to  whom  I  did  not  speak  of  Gamaliel — and 
Mr.  Gilbert,  the  druggist,  to  whom  I  did.  Gamaliel 
still  lived  in  Baltimore,  earning  and  studying  with 
a  chemist  there.  He  wrote  to  me,  but  less  frequently 
than  at  first  he  had  written.  In  his  last  letter,  after 
a  paragraph  of  surface  details,  he  had  suddenly 
dropped  a  line  and  written:  "How  long  and  wide 
have  we  lived,  anyhow?  Where  do  we  begin  or  stop, 
or  are  beginning  and  stopping  words  of  ignorance? 
I  am  going  to  work  until  I  find  out — possibly  after 
I  find  out." 

Mr.  Gilbert  showed  me  a  letter  from  the  Baltimore 
chemist.  Gilbert's  drug-store  had  before  it  a  vast 
horse-chestnut,  giving  in  summer  a  solid  shade.  The 
place  rests  in  mind  forever  dim  and  cool,  small, 
old-time,  dispensing  few  articles  besides  drugs,  hav 
ing  no  throng  of  customers.  One  went  down  a  step 
to  go  in  at  the  door.  A  bell  rang,  the  door  opened, 
there  came  a  waft  of  odors  compounded  so  that 
one  caught  far  times  and  far  lands.  A  gnomelike, 
bright-eyed,  elderly  man  shuffled  in  from  a  back 
room.  Something  that  tasted  of  eternity  was  in 
the  place. 

The  Baltimore  chemist  stated  that  Gamaliel 
Young  was  getting  on  very  well.  He  attended  to 
business  and  in  his  odd  hours  studied  hard.  "I 
should  say  that  he  had  a  streak  of  genius — but 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

he's  as  unsociable  as  any  hermit-crab !  He's  got  some 
queer  associates.  They  aren't  wild,  except  in  their 
thinking.  They're  wild  enough  there!" 

Mr.  Gilbert  folded  the  letter.  "  Sampson's  a  good 
man,  but  he's  a  pedant.  He  doesn't  know  eaglets 
when  he  sees  them." 

I  said:  "I  think  Gamaliel's  an  eaglet.  I'm  glad 
that  you  think  so,  too,  sir." 

"I  don't  know  what,  precisely,  he's  hunting. 
But  he's  a  seeker,  all  right." 

"He  wants  to  find  what  he  is — what  we  are," 
I  said. 

"Does  he?  Well,  that's  a  considerable  job!"  said 
the  druggist.  "See  if  you  can  find  what  we  are  not! 
When  he's  as  old  as  I  am  he'll  be  content  if  he  has 
laid  hand  upon  one  new  land.  It  takes  a  fleet  made 
up  of  fleets  to  find  the  universe!" 

"In  short,  it  takes  the  universe." 

"Quite  so! ...  Well,  and  Michael,  you're  to  be  an 
engineer — " 

Going  out  of  town  that  day,  I  overtook  Mr.  Mill 
wood  upon  the  road  to  Restwell,  driving  himself 
in  an  old  buggy.  He  said  that  he  wanted  to  talk 
to  me,  and  so,  dismounting,  I  fastened  Boreas 
behind  the  vehicle  and  took  my  seat  beside  our  old 
family  friend.  He  talked  about  Landon  and  the 
kind  of  place  they  said  it  was,  and  about  my  going 
away,  and  about  my  mother  and  grandfather.  But 
what  he  most  wanted  to  say  was  that  he  hoped  that 
I  would  take  the  Lord  Jesus  with  me. 

Now  I  truly  loved  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  but  I  could 
not  talk  nor  think  of  Him  as  Mr.  Millwood  talked 
and  thought,  as  Mr.  Millwood  wished  me  to  talk  and 

138 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

think.  So  it  ended  in  silence  on  my  part.  Mr. 
Millwood  sighed.  "One  day  you  will  know  and  love 
Him,  Michael!  A  young  man  may  keep  on  harden 
ing  his  heart,  but  the  Lord  is  the  Lord  and  will 
break  it  in  His  hands!" 

I  said:  "That  sounds  like  Doctor  Young,  Mr. 
Millwood.  I  don't  suppose  that  I  love  Jesus  well 
enough — that's  true.  But  I  profoundly  do  not  feel 
that  He's  my  enemy  nor  that  I  am  His  enemy.  I 
feel,  instead,  that  we  are  friends." 

"But  you  must  see  that  He  is  your  Lord  and 
Saviour!  If  you  do  not  see  that,  you  see  nothing!" 

As  we  jogged  on  I  had  a  vision  of  Canaan  and 
Galilee,  and  of  a  young  Jewish  man  who  walked  in 
and  out  of  little  villages  and  talked  with  the  folk, 
or  who  sat  solitary  on  hillsides  or  by  the  blue  water. 
He  came  warm  against  my  heart.  I  could  feel  a 
brown,  lean,  strong  hand  in  mine,  a  hand  with  grip 
and  meaning.  I  could  and  did  feel  for  Him  love  and 
vast  reverence,  but  I  could  not  feel  that  He  alone 
was  Only  God.  I  could  feel  the  Christ  Idea,  that  had 
always  been  in  the  world,  nearer  Him,  not  so  near 
to  me,  and  to  that  extent  He  was  diviner  than  me. 
The  extent  might  be  huge.  He  might  be  adult  and 
I  a  babe.  But  Idea  is  free  ocean  and  free  atmosphere. 
I,  too,  swam  and  flew  toward  myself  as  Risen  Man. 

Nor  do  I  think  that  there  was,  this  sunny  day,  more 
pride  and  self  in  me,  sitting  there,  than  in  the  old 
priest  of  the  temple  who  had  baptized  me  and  who 
now  quite  sorrowfully  believed  that,  despite  it,  he 
might  have  eventually  to  number  me  among  the 
lost.  But  Mr.  Millwood's  imagination  was  not  the 
imagination  of  Doctor  Young.  He  could  not  devise 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

a  great  lurid  picture  of  the  damned  like  the  sands 
of  the  sea  for  .number,  and  of  hell  like  an  illimitable 
Inquisition  torture-chamber.  He  felt  discomfiture, 
some  anger  and  solicitude.  But  he  was  an  opti 
mistic,  cheerful,  ruddy  man,  and  he  could  not  dis 
like  me  long,  nor  really  picture  me  as  sawn  asunder 
and  sawn  asunder  again,  or  plunged  into  scalding 
oil  in  an  eternal  sequence  of  horror.  Before  we  came 
to  the  new  bridge  across  the  river  he  was  once  more 
discoursing  of  Landon  and  the  temptations  and  dan 
gers,  broadcast  before  young  men,  which  he  trusted 
I  would  avoid.  "But  you  will!"  he  said.  "Your 
father  and  mother,  and  grandfather  and  grandmother 
have  saved  you  from  that." 

So  we  came  to  Restwell.  He  missed  old  faces,  but 
he  was  fond  of  Aunt  Harriet  and  she  was  fond  of 
Mr.  Millwood. 

I  stayed  at  Restwell  three  weeks.  It  was  not  only 
the  big  house  and  those  in  it,  but  it  was  Daddy 
Guinea  and  Mammy  and  Mandy's  Jim  and  Ahasu- 
erus.  I  loved  these  four  a  little  more  vigorously 
than  I  loved  Uncle  Carter  and  Aunt  Harriet — and, 
I  may  think,  just  as  dutifully.  I  should  hardly  see 
Daddy  Guinea  again  on  this  stretch  of  the  way.  No 
one  knew  how  old  he  was,  but  he  was  very  old.  He 
would  talk  a  little,  but  then  he  would  sit  on  the  door 
step  in  long  silences.  I  sat  with  him,  and  I  fell  to 
looking  back  of  him  into  Africa — back  of  the  fields, 
the  slave-markets,  the  slave-ships,  the  enslavers, 
back,  back — back  of  the  Guinea  Coast  into  the 
center.  .  .  .  And  the  white  man,  back,  back,  back — 
and  here,  too,  were  forests  and  miry,  steamy  river 
bottoms  and  naked  skins  and  the  whirling  rattle. 

140 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

There  came  into  my  memory  Blake's  "The  Little 
Black  Boy."  My  mother  read  it  to  me  more  than 
twice  or  thrice  when  I  was  little. 

And  those  black  bodies,  and  this  sunburnt  face, 

Are  but  a  cloud  and  like  a  shady  grove  .  .  . 

When  I  from  black,  and  he  from  white  cloud  freed   .  .  . 

And  I  thought  of  untruth  and  ungenerosity  and  un 
love,  clothed  in  whatever  color  it  might  be,  and  of 
the  relativity  of  all  things. 


141 


CHAPTER  XV 

I  WENT  on  to  Flowerfield.  The  singing  house  still 
sang.  I  tasted  its  richness  and  simpleness.  It 
was  so  big  and  uncluttered,  so  largely,  wealthily 
itself.  Uncle  John  and  Aunt  Kate  were  the  nearest 
now  to  father  and  mother.  Catherine  and  Lewis 
had  a  bright,  flashing  quality,  skimming  about  like 
birds.  They  went  after  their  own  devices.  Old 
loved  John  showed  preoccupied  this  summer.  Winds 
that  blew  him  toward  Green  view,  nine  miles  away, 
where  lived  Amy  Page,  were  good  winds,  great, 
balmy  trade-winds.  Other  winds  left  him  inatten 
tive.  He  was  at  Greenview,  or  on  the  road  to 
Greenview,  or  on  the  road  from  Greenview. 

Miriam  and  I  went  together.  That  was  old  times 
keeping  on.  But  now  there  had  fallen  down  from 
heaven  a  full,  strange,  added  bliss. 

We  came  out  of  the  old  school-room  door  and 
crossed  to  the  tulip-tree  where  hung  the  swing, 
long-roped,  wide-seated.  It  was  my  third  morning 
at  Flowerfield.  In  this  part  of  the  place  we  thought 
of  Madam  Black.  Looking  over  our  shoulder,  we 
might  almost  see  her  in  the  school-room  door.  We 
came  under  the  tulip-tree  and  looked  up  into  the 
green  and  towering  cone  where  branches  made  many 
a  section,  and  then  we  sat  in  the  swing.  "When  we 

142 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

used  to  swing — up,  up — out  and  away!  Do  you 
remember  once  when  we  and  the  swing  and  all 
seemed  to  be  flying?  There  was  such  a  thrill!" 

"Yes,  yes  . .  .  Thrill.  ...  A  big,  blossoming  feeling, 
everything  dawning!"  She  closed  her  eyes  and  kept 
them  shut  for  half  a  minute.  Opening  them,  she 
turned  full  to  me.  " Michael!  I  told  father  and 
mother  that  I  wanted  to  tell  you  myself.  I  am  going 
to  Baltimore  next  month.  I  am  going  to  be  a  nurse." 

"To  be  a  nurse—" 

"Yes.  A  trained  nurse.  You  know  more  and  more 
women  are  doing  that.  One  can  make  it  a  kind  of 
big  work — if  one  chooses!  It's  all  in  the  choosing. 
...  I  don't  feel  urged  toward  teaching  school.  I'm 
not  a  writer.  I've  tried,  and  it  isn't  very  good.  I 
haven't  been  to  college,  and  there  aren't  many 
things  open  to  women.  .  .  .  Nursing  is  certainly  half 
of  doctoring — of  doctoring  and  healing.  Even  if  I 
had  been  to  college  I  should  still  like  to  doctor  and 
heal.  There's  a  real  star  shining  along  that  lane  of 
clouds.  So  I  am  going,  Michael!" 

I  was  getting  up  all  my  luggage  and  following  her. 
"Why?" 

"Why?  ...  I  want  to  work  and  earn.  I  want  to 
learn  more  and  other  things.  I  want  to  be,  I  want 
to  do — fuller  and  fuller.  I  want  to  take — I  want  to 
give.  I  want  better  to  know  how  to  take  and 
to  give." 

I  said:  "You  work  here;  you  help  no  end.  You're 
joy  to  Uncle  John  and  Aunt  Kate.  Uncle  John  can 
carry  all." 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  Miriam.  "But  I  am  going  out 
— I  am  going  out  of  the  nest,  Michael.  Wings 

143 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

mustn't  always  stay  in  nests.  Father  and  mother 
agree.  They  understand.  ...  I  don't  know  that  I 
think  about  it.  I  feel  about  it.  At  first,  somewhere, 
sometime,  I  must  have  thought  about  it.  But  now 
I  feel.  ...  So  I  am  going,  Michael!" 

She  told  the  details  of  her  plan.  She  watched  me 
as  she  talked.  I  was  thinking  only.  "We  cannot 
marry  before  we  are  twenty-six.  Will  this  come  in 
that's  way?"  I  had  to  find  out.  Catherine  and  Lewis 
came  skimming  around  the  corner  of  the  house.  I 
was  rather  glad.  Just  here,  before  the  house,  was 
not  the  place  in  which  to  find  out. 

I  said,  "Will  you  come  this  afternoon  to  Wake- 
robin  Hill?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  I'll  be  ready  at  four." 

We  moved  under  the  great  hemlocks  on  the 
purple,  somber  side  of  Wake-robin  Hill.  "Somber" 
is  not  the  word;  it  was  coolly,  darkly  lifted,  pillared 
and  ample,  a  true  natural  temple.  Blue  space 
waked,  far  up,  beyond  the  tracery  of  the  roof.  An 
organ  wind  rose  and  fell,  but  not  in  storms  of  sound. 
There  was  incense.  One  felt  in  the  place  gathered 
means,  gathered  ends.  Purpose  lifted  from  the 
throng  of  small  desires.  Cause  stood  whole  in 
effect. 

Miriam  and  I  went  to  our  most  loved  hemlock 
and  sat  down  upon  the  dim,  purple  carpet.  For  some 
time  we  rested  without  words.  The  place  took  us 
as  it  always  took  us.  The  fret  and  foam,  eddies 
and  bubbles,  the  debris  gathered  and  carried,  still 
moved,  outside,  on  the  surface  of  the  current.  But 
here  were  to  be  felt  the  purified  strength  and  depth, 
the  eternal  dimensions,  the  immortal  impetus.  Quiet 

144 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

so  far  from  quietism,  stillness  so  far  from  death, 
intension  so  far  from  inaction.  .  .  . 

We  sat  upon  the  earth.  We  had  not  spoken  for  a 
considerable  time.  Our  inner  being  flowed  together, 
with  a  deeper  sense  of  a  deeper  pulse.  Came  a 
momentary  vision  again  of  that  mighty  machine  we 
had  watched  at  the  Centennial  Exhibition.  So 
doubled  and  redoubled,  so  strong,  so  eased.  .  .  . 

Power  and  love  and  knowledge!  Two  rays  fused 
into  one  beam,  and  the  resultant  richly  conscious — 

"Sat  we  two,  one  another's  best.  .  .  . 
Our  souls — which  to  advance  their  state 
Were  gone  out — hung  betwixt  her  and  me." 

Miriam  understood  and  I  understood.  When  at 
last  we  said,  "I  love  you" — and  I  know  not  which 
said  it  first — it  was  but  the  deep  music  playing  on 
this  stair,  also,  which  had  long  been  playing  every 
where  else.  ...  I  do  not  know  when  Miriam  and  I 
first  met  and  loved.  I  do  not  think  there  is  any 
"when"  or  "first"  about  it. 

We  moved  nearer  together,  we  put  our  arms  about 
each  other,  we  kissed.  .  .  .  We  sat  hand  in  hand,  and 
the  organ  wind  was  like  the  lifting,  falling,  forming, 
dissolving,  reforming  of  earths  and  eons  .  .  .  and 
ever  wiser,  more  beautiful! 

One  red  sunset  shaft  came  into  the  hemlock  wood 
by  Wake-robin  Hill.  We  stirred — we  must  go  back 
to  Flowerfield. 

Somewhere,  going,  we  laid  the  specter  of  separa 
tion  because  she  would  have  knowledge,  and  use  it, 
of  nursing  and  healing.  The  specter  was  a  rather 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

weak-jointed,  grotesque  elemental.  We  were  not 
so  easy  to  separate  as  that  came  to! 

We  felt  bliss — we  saw  our  milestone  on  the  way 
to  All — All — All  I  First,  the  integration  that  names 
itself  the  conscious  individual.  Second,  the  inte 
gration  that  says,  "We  love  together — we  two  are 
one!'*  Third  ...  is  it  family,  clan,  nation,  world 
...  is  it  an  integration  called  Christ,  on  the  way  to 
God? 

Miriam  and  I  were  happy — most  happy.  But 
still  we  saw  the  star — some  star  that  drew.  Love 
must  go  there,  love  must  broaden  its  beam.  We 
must  carry  our  love  on — carry  on  ... 

We  felt  how  it  transfigured,  how  the  rivers  heard 
the  ocean. 

Early  in  September  I  parted  from  Flowerfield 
and  all  there,  going  to  Restwell  again  for  a  week, 
and  thence  out  of  Virginia,  south  and  west  by  some 
hundreds  of  miles,  to  Landon,  where  coal  and  iron 
were  being  mined,  where  eventually  steel  would  be 
made.  I  went  to  a  position  carrying,  for  a  young 
man,  a  fair  beginning  salary.  Behind  me  was  General 
Warringer  with  his  large  interests.  I  should  be  given 
opportunity.  * '  For  the  rest,  you'll  have  to  do  it  your 
self,"  said  my  uncle.  "You  can  make  or  you  can 
mar,  you  know!"  He  sighed.  I  covered  with  mine 
his  hand,  lying  before  him  on  the  table.  "You've 
been  good  to  me,  Uncle  Carter — " 

Ahasuerus  went  with  me  to  Landon.  He  said 
that  he  did  not  want  to  stay  any  longer  at  Rest- 
well.  Miss  Harriet  and  the  general  were  mighty 
good  folk — but  he  didn't  like  it  without  the  colonel 

146 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

and  Miss  Gary.  Of  course,  if  Miss  Sarah  wanted 
him — but  she  didn't  seem  to  need  any  one.  .  .  . 
He  thought  that  he  could  get  a  job  down  there 
where  Mr.  Michael  was  going.  He'd  like,  he  told 
me,  to  drive  a  big  wagon.  He  stood  six  feet  and 
strong,  an  even,  beautiful  brown,  -with  an  open,  not 
at  all  unintelligent  face.  He  was  older  by  some 
years  than  I,  but  we  had  been  in  each  other's  land 
scape  for  a  long,  long  time.  We  had  played  together 
and  we  had  worked  together.  I  was  fond  of  him, 
and  he  was  fond  of  me.  He  had  neither  wife  nor 
child.  He  wanted  to  go  where  I  went,  and  at  last 
it  was  so  agreed.  He  could  read  and  write,  and  he 
had  that  practical  knowledge  of  basic  economic 
processes  which  many  a  college  man  might  envy. 
He  was  genial,  as  his  people  are,  happy  in  himself. 
Travelers,  he  must  go  in  one  car  and  I  in  another. 
That  was  custom,  presently  was  to  become  law.  He 
must  obey  it,  I  must  obey  it.  There  were  plenty  of 
other  customs — for  instance,  he  must  give  me  the 
"Mr.,"  but  I  never  gave  it  to  him — plenty  of  cus 
toms,  not  a  few  laws.  I  suppose  that  some  day 
the  colors  of  the  spectrum  will  recognize  that  some 
where  they  really  are  together,  and  that  there  is 
little  use  in  playing  ostrich. 

I  had  said  good-by  to  Flowerfield.  Now  I  said 
good-by  to  Restwell.  The  boat  that  was  upon  the 
river  saw  that  it  was  sharply  turning.  Willows, 
hills,  would  come  between  it  and  the  known,  familiar 
reaches.  There  would  be  new  scenery.  I  said  good- 
by.  Ahasuerus  and  I  traveled  west  and  traveled 
south. 


147 


CHAPTER  XVI 

TANDON,  spreading  over  and  between  low  hills, 
JLrf  opened  upon  a  bit  of  a  plain  where  furnaces 
were  building.  Shaggy,  higher  hills,  called  by  cour 
tesy  mountains,  made  sides  of  an  amphitheater.  In 
this  direction  coal  was  being  mined;  in  that,  iron. 
Near  at  hand  ran  a  muddy,  sluggish  river  crossed 
by  an  un triumphant  bridge.  The  woods  were  largely 
pine  and  small  oak,  the  climate  warmer  than  that 
I  had  left. 

At  this  time  the  population  of  Landon  might 
number  three  thousand.  That  was  two  thousand 
more  than  had  been  in  presence  three  years  earlier. 
The  dwelling-houses,  big  and  little,  were  frame, 
and  there  were  many  little  and  very  few  big,  and  the 
big  only  so  by  contrast  with  the  others.  The  rail 
way  station  was  frame,  the  hotel,  the  two  churches. 
But  the  offices  of  the  company  of  which  General 
Warringer  was  a  director  were  brick,  as  were  the 
Landon  Bank  and  the  company  stores.  Brick,  too, 
was  the  office  of  the  Landon  &  Gulf  Railway  Com 
pany.  All  these  constituted  themselves  into  finger 
posts  which  proclaimed:  "Here  is  Solidity  and  Per 
manence.  We  point  to  a  Future  in  which  we  shall 
be  larger — much  larger — and  stone!" 

The  company  into  whose  service  I  came  owned 

148 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

the  mines,  a  range  of  hills  stuffed  with  coal,  and  a 
divergent  range  where  iron  outcropped.  It  owned 
the  furnaces  being  constructed;  in  great  measure 
it  owned  Landon.  Its  rival  was  a  company  seated 
eight  miles  up  the  river,  with  other  coal  and  iron 
ownings,  furiously  building  a  furnace  beside  its 
own  wooden  town,  with  its  own  brick  offices. 

Ahasuerus  and  I  descended  from  the  train  at 
Landon.  About  us  was  a  scrambling  crowd,  white 
men  and  negroes.  A  slight,  blond  young  man  met 
me.  "Mr.  Forth  1" 

"Yes." 

"I  am  Alec  Battle,  draftsman  in  the  office  here. 
Your  chief  asked  me  to  get  you  and  pilot  you  about. 
That  darky  with  you?" 

"Yes.  Ahasuerus  Robertson.  I'm  responsible 
for  him.  He's  all  right.  He  wants  to  drive  a 
wagon." 

"I'll  turn  him  over  to  William  at  the  office.  You'll 
find  a  number  of  Virginians  here." 

That  proved  true.  The  Landon  Coal  and  Iron 
Company  was  built,  to  an  extent,  with  Northern 
capital,  as  the  Landon  &  Gulf  Railway  Company 
was  built  to  an  extent  with  Northern  capital.  But 
the  working  force  was  predominantly  Southern  and 
drawn  from  almost  every  state  below  Mason  and 
Dixon.  The  president  of  the  Landon  Coal  and  Iron 
came  indeed  from  Pennsylvania,  and  the  president 
of  the  Landon  &  Gulf  from  Ohio.  These  gentlemen 
did  not  live  at  Landon.  They  came  there  in  private 
cars,  visited  for  a  few  days,  showed  themselves 
very  genial  with  the  generality,  sometimes  genial, 
sometimes  the  reverse  with  the  closeted  few.  Then 

149 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

V    ..' 

the  private  car,  at  the  end  of  the  passenger  express, 
disappeared  around  the  curve.  But  superintendent 
and  manager  and  down  the  line  lived  at  Landon. 
The  railway,  too,  was  building  beyond,  looking 
darkly  meantime  at  the  probable  construction,  just 
across  the  river,  of  a  competing  feeler  from  the 
Debenham  &  Atlantic.  The  sense  of  a  career,  of 
a  future,  hung  strongly  over  Landon.  Go  up  the 
river  those  few  miles  to  Parisia  and  you  encountered 
the  like  prophetic  sense — for  Parisia.  But  Parisia 
granted  for  Landon  no  other  career  than  one  of 
disaster.  And  Landon  returned  the  compliment. 
They  stood  opposed  like  bulls  with  lowered  heads. 
.  .  .  All  this,  and  much  besides,  came  later  to  my 
knowledge.  Now,  in  the  moment,  I  left  with  Battle 
and  Ahasuerus  the  dirty  station  and  stepped  into  the 
main  street  of  Landon.  There  shone  the  brightest 
autumn  sunlight,  from  the  bluest  sky. 

I  have  come  to  realize  the  ills  of  the  world's 
present  economic  life,  and  I  with  others  strive  after 
a  more  understandable  and  understanding  system. 
The  sins  and  evils  are  great,  and  must  be  seen  and 
outgrown.  Else  smash — and  smash  again  and 
again — and  at  last,  facing  every  one,  the  ugliest 
monster  to  be  dealt  with,  and  all  the  power  of 
dealing  enfeebled!  But  I  was  in  it,  there  and  then, 
in  the  system,  not  especially  protesting,  taking  it  for 
granted,  working  in  it  with  some  cheerfulness,  some 
conscience,  and  some  aspiration,  and  if  with  growing 
longings,  growing  doubts,  yet  with  no  crystalline 
vision  of  direction  out  of  it.  And  so,  by  my  own 
experience,  I  know  that  others,  too,  in  the  old  sys 
tem,  worked  with  cheerfulness,  conscience,  and  aspi- 

150 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

ration.  And  yet  how  hedged,  frontiered  in,  continu 
ously  defeated,  were  the  three!  And  most  folk 
seemed  unaware  of  anything  on  the  whole  to  change. 
Their  individual  satisfactions  ought  to  expand.  The 
circumstances  of  themselves  and  their  immediate 
families  ought  to  change.  Nothing  in  the  world  with 
all  of  them  was  so  certain  as  that!  There  they 
worked  toward  change  quite  ardently  and  ardu 
ously.  But  they  thought  of  everything  as  happening 
in  the  system.  /  go  up;  then,  relatively  speaking 
at  least,  you  go  down.  We  didn't  seem  to  be  able 
to  make  good  general.  It  was,  they  seemed  to 
think,  on  the  whole  God's  system  and  the  way  the 
world  was  made.  .  .  .  Unhappy  world! 

There  was  mistake,  I  think.  But  in  this  universe 
of  power  and  joy  so  much  that  is  not  mistake  lives 
within  us!  So  steadily  does  what  heaven  we  have 
gained  work  at  heavenizing  our  earth !  I  feel  mainly 
now  the  lift  in  persons  and  things.  I  see  that  from 
imperfect  systems,  syntheses,  grow  steadily  the  im 
perfect  yet,  but  the  more  perfect.  ...  At  Landon, 
for  all  the  narrow  serving,  for  all  the  low-order 
social  mechanism,  for  all  our  dim  vision,  dim  alike 
with  educated  and  uneducated,  official  and  laborer, 
we  were  not  hopeless.  We  had  industry,  pluck, 
vigor.  We  could  laugh  and  clap  a  man  upon  the 
back.  We  could  show  kindness.  I  remember  now 
how  many  good  folk  were  there — in  the  offices,  the 
bank,  the  churches,  on  the  road,  at  the  furnaces, 
in  the  mines. 

Battle  and  Ahasuerus  and  I  went  along  Main 
Street.  Under  the  bright  sunshine  there  fell  a  gild 
ing  cheerfulness  over  the  shacks  and  shanties,  the 

151 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Italian-kept  fruit-stand,  the  colored  barber  standing 
beside  his  barber-pole,  the  Chinaman  ironing,  the 
gold  mortar  and  pestle  before  a  drug-store  that  might 
have  gone  into  a  pocket,  the  buzz  about  a  saloon. 

"Have  a  drink?"  asked  Battle. 

I  shook  my  head.  "No,  I  made  a  promise  long 
ago." 

"Well,  you're  lucky  to  have  kept  it!" 

He  pointed  out  as  we  went  the  more  marked 
features  of  the  town.  Every  one  whom  we  met, 
white  and  negro,  spoke  to  him  and  he  to  them. 
He  placed  many  for  me.  "I've  been  here  two  years. 
Every  one's  fastened  together  like  a  bead  necklace. 
The  company's  the  string — the  company  and  the 
Landon  &  Gulf.  There's  the  office — but  I'm  going 
to  take  you  first  to  your  boarding-place.  You'll  want 
to  get  rid  of  your  bags  and  see  where  you  are.  Gen 
eral  Warringer's  mother  was  my  father's  second 
cousin.  So  we're  kind  of  kin.  Cousin  Harriet  wrote 
to  me  to  get  you  a  good  place  to  live  in.  This  is  the 
best  here." 

We  had  turned  at  right  angles  and  were  going  up 
a  steep  and  dusty  side-street,  or,  rather,  road.  He 
indicated  a  large,  rambling,  one-story  house  or  con 
siderable  cottage  behind  maples  and  water-oaks. 
It  looked  neatly  kept,  with  a  veranda,  vines  and 
flowers  in  a  small  yard.  "Mrs.  Sayre's,"  he  ex 
plained.  "Doctor  Sayre's  legally,  but  Mrs.  Sayre's 
colloquially.  They  belong  in  this  state,  but  they 
moved  from  a  plantation  somewhere  to  Landon 
because  they've  got  two  sons  here  with  the  company. 
Clerks.  Bob  and  Ferry.  The  doctor  is  crippled  by 
rheumatism.  He  doesn't  practise.  Three-fourths 

152 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

of  his  time  he  lies  in  a  hammock  and  reads.  She's 
a  benevolent  despot.  You  can't  help  liking  her. 
She's  a  captain  housekeeper.  I  board  here,  too. 
See  that  little  cottage  at  the  side?  They  own  it. 
Four  rooms  in  it — yours,  mine,  Bob's,  and  Ferry's." 

We  mounted  the  veranda  steps.  A  colored  girl 
was  sweeping  away  fallen  vine  leaves.  Behind  her 
the  house  door  stood  hospitably  open,  showing  a 
hall  with  an  old  clock  and  two  or  three  pictures. 
A  large  lady  in  a  pleasant,  clean,  and  thin  flowery 
gown,  with  a  palm-leaf  fan  in  her  hand,  came  toward 
us.  So  I  met  Mrs.  Sayre,  before  whom  my  mind 
still  halts  in  a  kind  of  half-humorous  amazement 
and  regard. 

From  Mrs.  Sayre's — I  never  heard  it  called  any 
thing  but  that — I  was  conveyed  by  Battle  to  the 
office.  Mrs.  Sayre  capably  disposed  of  Ahasuerus. 
She  had  a  cook  and  a  man,  Mirandy  and  Harris, 
who  lived  in  the  alley.  Landon  already  had  alleys. 
Mirandy  and  Harris  could  put  Ahasuerus  some 
where.  If  he  was  a  handy  man  Mrs.  Sayre  could 
give  him  work  until  his  proper  job  appeared.  Har 
ris,  summoned,  took  Ahasuerus  in  charge.  My  room 
in  the  cottage — the  big  cottage  was  called  the  house 
— proved  small  and  furnished  with  a  simplicity. 
But  it  was  fresh  and  clean,  and  one  of  its  two  windows 
gave  a  wide  view  of  eastern  sky  and  of  the  last  roofs 
of  Landon,  of  plain  and  building  furnaces,  river  and 
hills. 

Battle  and  I  went  down  the  street  together  and 
on  to  the  office,  half-way  between  Mrs.  Sayre's  and 
the  railway  station.  As  we  went  he  discoursed 
various  economic  aspects  of  Landon.  He  did  not 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

use  the  word  "economic."  It  had  not  come  per 
fectly  into  general  use  in  the  eighth  decade  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  The  decade  used  an  older 
jargon.  Words  that  are  common  to-day  stayed  at 
that  time  in  learned  print.  The  labor  at  Landon 
was  in  mass  negro,  and  one  mine  used  convict  labor. 
The  bosses,  the  foremen,  petty  heads  of  kinds,  were, 
of  course,  white,  and  chiefly  American,  though  with 
a  good  sprinkling  of  Irish  and  German.  There  was 
one  gang  of  Italians.  Mechanics,  carpenters,  ma 
sons,  etc.,  were  white  and  mainly  from  Yankee- 
land  and  Dixie.  The  clerical  force,  paymasters, 
commissary  men,  bookkeepers,  clerks,  and  so  forth, 
appeared  to  have  come  from  every  state  east  of  the 
Mississippi.  As  for  other  citizens  of  Landon,  here 
on  their  own,  there  seemed  an  ethnic  ruck  of  these. 
Jewish  names,  Greek,  Chinese  emerged.  .  .  .  And 
there  were  certain  ladies.  .  .  . 

Battle  looked  aside  at  me.  I  shook  my  head. 
"The  same  promise.  And  I  do  not  want  it,  anyhow, 
any  longer." 

" Lucky  man!"  said  Battle.  "Oh,  my  Lord,  it 
is  a  net!" 

The  street  was  dusty,  dirty;  the  sidewalk  narrow, 
made  of  board  and  fouled  with  torn  paper,  fruit 
peeling,  tobacco  juice.  The  east-bound  Landon  & 
Gulf,  puffing  bituminous-coal  smoke  and  with  a 
loud-clanging  bell,  went  by  out  of  Landon.  Children 
were  crying  in  a  room  above  the  tintype  man's 
booth.  Farther  down  Mr.  Abrahams  stood  in  front 
of  his  clothing-shop.  "Goot  day,  frients!"  he  said, 
as  we  passed. 

I  looked  about  me.    The  exhilaration  of  the  morn- 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

ing,  arrival,  novelty,  the  sunshine,  faded  a  little. 
''What's  going  to  be  here,  after  all?" 

Battle  grew  animated.  "A  big  town!  The  biggest 
kind  of  big  town.  There's  enough  coal  and  iron 
and  limestone  in  these  mountains  to  run  the  United 
States!  Presently  there  '11  be  blast-furnaces  and 
blast-furnaces.  I  can  imagine  it  any  night,  with 
the  sky  all  lit  up.  The  old  Landon  &  Gulf  won't 
be  the  only  railroad,  either,  though  it  would  like  to 
be!  Parisia — "  He  gave  the  word  with  quite  inde 
scribable  scorn.  "Parisia  will  take  a  back  seat.  She 
hasn't  got  the  capital  or  the  brains.  Landon 's  got 
both.  We've  grown  a  thousand  since  last  year." 
He  took  on  an  exalted  look.  "It's  coming.  .  .  . 
Street-cars — electric  light — ice-cream  parlors — thea 
ters — bigger  salaries — " 

I  saw  in  Battle,  and  was  to  see  in  many  at  Landon, 
the  overflowing  of  the  personality  over  something 
growing.  There  collected  a  pool  of  triumphing  affec 
tion  when  the  growing  thing  was  esteemed  friendly 
to  the  self,  but  for  the  held-to-be-unfriendly  a 
boding  dislike  amounting  at  times  to  hatred.  Fear 
of  the  growing  thing  always  chose  contempt  for 
disguise.  Towns,  industries,  institutions,  parties, 
systems — points  of  view.  The  pale  earth  seedling 
bent  the  way  it  was  inclined,  then  proclaimed  at 
once  papal  infallibility.  "This,  that,  with  mathe 
matical  certitude,  I  know  to  favor  me,  is  saved ;  this, 
that,  with  like  certainty,  I  am  sure  opposes  me,  is 
damned!  And  not  at  all  relatively  so,  but  in  the 
eternal  Absolute.  So,  acclaiming  this  growth,  so, 
fighting  and  despising  yonder  growth,  I  with  pride 
become  fanatic  before  the  temple  door!" 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Well.  .  .  .  There  is  the  joy  of  the  fanatic! 

We  arrived  before  the  office  of  the  Landon  Coal 
and  Iron  Company.  The  building  was  brick,  three- 
storied,  quite  well  and  widely  paved  in  front,  with 
a  big  door,  with  rows  of  moderately  clean  windows, 
behind  which  might  be  dimly  seen  much  activity. 
Men  stood  in  the  doorway,  men  went  in  and 
came  out.  The  passageway  which  we  entered  felt 
most  gratefully  cool  after  the  midday  sun.  Battle 
turned  toward  a  large  room  to  the  right.  'Til 
introduce  you  to  Colonel  Ringgold.  Then  we'll 
go  up-stairs." 

It  was  the  general  superintendent's  office.  Colonel 
Ringgold  turned  in  his  swivel-chair.  Large,  satur 
nine,  with  a  scar  acquired  at  Chickamauga  running 
from  brow  to  chin,  he  looked  at  me  with  intent 
gray  eyes.  "Well,  Mr.  Forth!  General  Warringer 
says  we  must  look  after  you.  Do  you  believe  in 
reciprocity?" 

"I  do,  sir." 

"Very  good!  We  don't  want  to  dig  and  dig  only 
to  find  that  the  seam  has  switched  off  or  petered 
out,  or  wasn't  at  its  thickest  very  thick.  We  want 
to  make  a  drift  into  power,  not  into  the  reverse. 
How  do  you  find  Mrs.  Sayre's?  I  understand  you're 
boarding  there." 

I  said  that  I  was  very  well  pleased.  He  nodded 
and  ever  so  slightly  turned  the  swivel-chair.  Battle 
said  that  we  wouldn't  trespass  longer.  "All  right!" 
answered  Colonel  Ringgold.  "Rather  a  busy  day. 
My  good  wishes,  Mr.  Forth!" 

In  the  passage  Battle  remarked,  in  a  lowered 
voice:  "Mrs.  Sayre  and  the  doctor  are  cousins  of 

156 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

his.  He's  very  good  stuff,  but  he'll  drive  you  like 
the  devil!" 

But  for  me  I  liked  Colonel  Ringgold,  though  I 
have  seen  him  drive  the  weak  like  the  devil. 

We  mounted  the  stairs.  There  was  a  room  with 
clerks.  Battle  grinned  at  the  collectivity,  then  took 
me  across  to  a  gentle,  elderly  man,  Mr.  Allen,  the 
bookkeeper,  sitting  in  a  kind  of  cage.  From  this 
room  we  went  down  a  narrow  passage  to  my  especial 
purview :  "  Mr.  Maxwell  may  be  at  the  mine,  or  gone 
riding  somewhere.  But  his  clerk,  Jim  Standard,  is 
here." 

It  turned  out  that  Mr.  Maxwell  had  just  come  in. 
Looking  out  of  window,  one  might  see  his  horse,  a 
strong,  gaunt  sorrel,  in  charge  of  a  black  Flibberti 
gibbet. 

My  chief  stood,  tall,  raw-boned,  sandy,  blue- 
eyed.  He  wore  a  gray  flannel  shirt  and  corduroy 
breeches  tucked  into  dusty  riding-boots.  His  slouch- 
hat  hung  on  a  nail  above  a  shelf  whereon  was  ranged 
specimens  of  ore.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  piece  of  red 
hematite,  and  he  was  dictating  in  a  clipped,  rau 
cous  voice  to  Jim  Standard,  who  took  his  words  down 
in  shorthand.  It  was  somewhat  before  the  day  of 
women  clerks,  and  only  one  letter  in  so  many  ap 
peared  typewritten.  Maxwell  swung  around  at  our 
entrance.  He  was  lithe,  thirty-five  about,  trained, 
I  afterward  found,  in  Edinburgh  and  Germany; 
still  a  British  subject,  drawn  to  America  through 
that  old  hunger  for  experience.  After  greeting  me 
in  a  dry,  casual  manner  he  finished  his  letter.  Then 
he  said:  "I  am  going  to  ride  ten  miles  to-morrow. 
I  suppose  that  you  ride?" 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

I  answered  that  I  did.  "I'll  expect  you  here,  then, 
at  eight  o'clock.  Get  a  horse.  Country's  rough. 
We'll  be  gone  all  day."  His  look  added:  "Try  you 
out  to-morrow.  If  I  don't  like  you  the  company 
may  keep  you — but  not  as  my  assistant!" 


158 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ON  that  day  and  that  ride  my  chief  put  me 
through  every  known  pace,  and  through  some 
that  I  had  to  devise,  create,  assemble  from  the 
All-Egg  on  the  moment's  spurring.  I  saw  what  he 
was  doing,  and  it  became  an  acquiescence,  with  a 
real,  aroused  curiosity  as  to  what  he  could  get  out 
of  me.  The  one  thing  I  was  bent  upon  was  that  the 
sponge  should  fill  from  its  background  as  fast  as  it 
was  wrung.  That  measure  kept,  let  him  squeeze 
away! 

To  change  the  figure,  by  the  time  we  rode  back 
into  Landon  at  dusk  I  felt  that  I  had  been  wrestling 
all  day.  I  had  respect,  admiration,  for  the  thew 
and  sinew  that  had  deliberately  and  with  such  con- 
tinuousness  tried  my  own. 

The  next  day  was  an  office  day.  He  had  a  little 
kind  of  laboratory,  a  drawing-desk,  a  long,  well- 
filled  bookcase,  a  variety  of  maps,  surveys,  what 
not,  pinned  against  the  wall,  drawers  filled  with 
specimens  of  ores  and  woods,  a  case  of  fossils,  a 
small  safe,  his  own  desk,  a  desk  for  Jim  Standard. 
I  had  an  adjoining  small  room,  very  bare  at  the 
moment. 

The  wrestling  continued  through  this  day.  Dusk 
found  us  both  standing  in  his  room,  by  the  shelf  of 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

ores.  He  took  his  hat  from  the  nail  above.  Standard 
was  gone.  He  spoke  in  his  dry,  succinct  voice. 
"The  company  may  keep  you  as  my  assistant,  Mr. 
Forth.  I  fancy  we  may  get  on  together.  I  am  going 
down  the  river  in  the  morning  by  train.  You'd 
better  take  the  day  off  for  your  own  affairs.  I'd 
buy  that  horse  of  Smith's — " 

I  began  to  settle  into  Landon.  Power,  knowledge, 
joy  of  living,  were  to  be  mined  there  as  elsewhere. 

Ahasuerus  was  presently  driving  his  wagon.  He, 
too,  incorporated  into  the  Landon  Coal  and  Iron.  He 
took  to  Mirandy  and  Harris,  domiciled  himself  with 
them. 

My  room  in  the  cottage  beside  the  Sayres*  house 
was  quite  well  enough.  Restwell  and  Flowerfield 
also  had  Spartan  simplicities,  in  many  ways  trained 
for  these.  So  that  there  was  cleanliness — and  there 
was  that  here — I  was  pleased  enough.  The  eastern 
window  gave  upon  extent  and,  to  a  considerable 
degree,  beauty.  I  sat  in  this  window  and  wrote  to 
Miriam.  I  drew  my  bed  so  that  at  night  I  got  the 
mounting  stars,  and  at  dawn  first  the  white  rose,  then 
the  pink. 

In  the  adjoining  house  lived  and  administered 
Mrs.  Sayre,  with  an  easy  capacity  in  action,  an  in 
stinct  for  process,  that  amounted  to  genius.  She 
was  so  large  and  soft,  and  yet  she  moved  with  such 
efficiency !  Four  of  the  Landon  Coal  and  Iron  Com 
pany's  men  boarded  with  Mrs.  Sayre;  three  of  the 
Landon  &  Gulf  men  and  three  independents  came 
to  her  table  for  meals.  We  dwelt  in  a  town  of  dust 
and  coal  smoke,  of  increasing  noise,  of  at  once  an 
energetic  and  extraordinarily  careless  humanity. 

160 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

To  a  considerable  extent  the  negro  population  had 
been  drawn  from  yet  farther  south,  from  cotton 
and  rice  fields.  Among  them  were  to  be  found 
few  who  were  trained  for  house  service.  White 
and  colored,  Landon  exhibited  a  surface  disor- 
derliness  in  varieties.  But  Mrs.  Sayre  and  Mrs. 
Sayre's  house  and  table,  her  porches,  vines,  grass, 
and  flowers,  her  picket  fence  and  gate  and  the  bit  of 
cinder  path  before  them,  displayed  old,  smooth 
order,  suave,  accomplished  standards.  I  never  saw 
her  reading,  though  I  think  that  she  did  read;  she 
was  an  infrequent  speaker;  she  sat  at  the  head 
of  her  long  table,  a  slow,  easy  empress.  Inert,  a 
stranger  would  have  said,  looking  for  the  able  min 
isters  who  made  her  reign.  But  if  ministers  there 
were,  they  were  in  Mrs.  Sayre.  After  a  time  it 
might  be  seen  that  she  did  nothing  and  said  noth 
ing  apart  from  the  purpose  of  some  dim,  central  in 
dividuality.  One  ended  by  being  impressed  with  the 
sheer  power  of  that  individuality.  She  was  Chinese 
— Confucian. 

Doctor  Sayre  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  a  small 
man  with  a  dome  of  a  forehead  and  a  slender,  sen 
sitive  mouth  and  jaw,  and  wide-apart,  sunken  eyes. 
He  was  subject  to  long,  melancholy,  brooding  silences 
— I  have  known  them  last  three  days — out  of  which 
he  burst  at  last  with  a  torrent  of  talk.  When  he 
rose  from  table  it  was  seen  how  crippled  he  was  by 
some  rheumatic  trouble.  One  end  of  the  veranda 
running  the  length  of  the  house  was  his  especial 
holding.  He  had  a  hammock  here  and  a  pictured 
screen  that  must  have  come  down  frcm  long  ago, 
and  a  table  heaped  with  books.  He  read  the  evo- 

161 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

lutionists,  and  all  the  works  on  archeology  that  he 
could  find. 

The  two  sons,  each  with  his  room  in  the  smaller 
cottage,  were  again  different.  Bob  Sayre,  good- 
natured,  good-looking,  with  tolerable  abilities,  had 
for  avocation  the  sowing  of  a  few  wild  oats.  He 
and  Battle  ran  together.  Ferry,  the  younger,  went 
to  church,  liked  flowers,  was  a  quiet,  manly  fellow. 

Father  Vesey  lived  at  the  Sayres'.  Mrs.  Sayre — 
I  discovered  somewhat  to  my  surprise,  and  then 
on  second  thought  not  to  my  surprise — was  a  Catho 
lic.  Father  Vesey  had  a  big  room  with  a  little 
veranda  of  his  own.  He  was  a  good  talker,  loved  a 
joke,  had  two  chins,  a  massive  frame,  and  a  good 
eye.  Jim  Standard  and  Mr.  Allen,  the  bookkeeper, 
made  the  other  inmates.  The  table-boarders  pre 
sented  each  his  facet  of  the  sempiternal  diamond. 
We  had  Robinson,  the  freight  agent  of  the  Landon 
&  Gulf;  Walter  Dupuy,  the  telegraph  operator,  and 
others.  I  grew  to  see  a  good  deal  of  Walter  Dupuy. 
He  was  a  thin,  dark,  slight  fellow  with  an  intense 
face.  He,  too,  was  a  reader  ...  a  born  romantic 
and  revolutionist. 

Days  slipped  into  weeks,  weeks  into  months.  At 
Christmas  there  were  still  a  few  pale  roses  in  Mrs. 
Say  re's  garden-plot.  I  felt  that  I  had  been  set  in 
the  Landon  pattern  a  long,  long  time. 

Maxwell  was  a  taskmaster  that  I  could  work 
under  with  no  sense  of  ennui.  A  man  who  worked 
for  Maxwell,  recognizing  his  authority,  went  into 
a  school  of  parts.  The  school  reached  deep,  had  a 
lateral  sweep  of  arm.  If  there  were  softness,  vague 
ness,  indolence,  Maxwell  was  a  whole  college  of 

162 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

ascetics  to  get  it  out.  He  was  a  drill  of  steel,  a 
directed  engine,  a  shaft  of  the  dryest  light.  I  worked 
for  him  and  with  him  ten  and  sometimes  twelve 
hours  a  day,  eighty  minutes  an  hour.  He  had  in 
him  a  titan,  dry,  spare,  and  tireless. 

Capital  continued  to  come  into  the  Landon  Coal 
and  Iron  Company.  The  latter  continued  to  send 
out  questing  antennae  through  a  wide  and  long 
region  of  mineral  wealth.  It  had  a  brace  of  lawyers 
said  never  to  be  beaten — it  was  developing  a  lobby 
at  the  state  capitol.  Tract  on  tract  of  land  was 
being  gently,  quietly  acquired.  Up  the  river  the 
Parisia  Company  worked  on  similar  lines.  But  the 
Parisia  Company  was  going  to  go  under — go  under 
and  come  up,  absorbed  into  the  Landon  Coal  and 
Iron.  Some  would  laugh  and  some  would  groan. 

It  was  Maxwell's  and  my  business  to  examine 
and  report  upon  these  lands.  We  had,  besides, 
abundant  occupation  at  the  mines,  new  and  old, 
and  about  the  furnaces,  and  no  little  work  that  must 
be  done  in  the  office.  The  New  Year  brought  wintry 
rain,  sleet,  a  little  snow.  Maxwell  and  I  worked  on, 
indoors  and  out-of-doors  in  all  weather.  He  did 
not  seem  involved,  caught,  in  the  Landon  Coal  and 
Iron  Company's  future,  nor  overmuch  in  the  fact 
that  he  was  paid  a  salary  to  do  so  and  so.  He  had 
undertaken  to  locate  coal  and  iron,  to  see  that  coal 
and  iron  hills  were  properly  opened,  and  to  attend 
to  various  cognate  matters,  and  he  did  the  job  as 
it  ought  to  be  done. 

January  and  February,  raw  and  gray,  rounded 
into  spring.  The  sky  cleared,  grew  azure;  we 
dipped  into  a  riot  of  leaf  and  blossom.  Maxwell 

163 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

and  I,  out  in  the  hills,  saw  bloom  the  yellow  jas 
mine  and  the  pink  honeysuckle.  One  day  we  had 
ridden  some  miles,  and  at  noon,  finding  a  trickling 
spring,  sat  by  it  and  ate  the  cold  meat  and  bread 
I  carried  in  an  old  geologizing  bag.  Maxwell  began 
to  talk.  By  this  time  we  had  gone  far  into  each 
other,  and  that  though  we  were  not  chatterers. 
"Of  course  one  day  this  system  will  die  into 
another." 

"'This  system.'  The  economic  system,  you 
mean?" 

"It's  lot  and  part  with  everything  else!  One 
species  grows  in  the  womb  of  another — at  last  buds 
off.  Yesterday  transmutes  into  to-day;  to-day  into 
to-morrow.  .  .  .  This  is  your  first  field,  but  I  have 
seen  a  lot  of  others.  Landon  isn't  yet  typical.  Black 
labor  with  the  agricultural  mind.  Africa  strained 
through  rice,  cotton,  and  tobacco  fields.  But  white 
labor  is  coming  in — will  be  coming  in  in  gushes 
presently.  Natives  and  immigrants.  This  is  going 
to  be  a  city.  Things  are  going  to  change." 

"What  do  you  think  of  labor-unions?" 

"I  think  that  they  are  healthy  children."  He 
drank  from  the  spring  and  settled  back  again.  "A 
good  many  things  appear  to  me  to  be  in  the  schedule 
of  the  Future.  Everywhere  in  civilization — gen 
eralized,  as  it  were." 

"Dupuy,  the  telegraph  operator,  loaned  me  Karl 
Marx's  Capital." 

"Dupuy  is  going  to  lose  his  place  one  of  these 
days.  .  .  .  Das  Kapital.  .  .  .  Yes." 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  you  think  of  it." 

"I've  not  the  clearest  leading  as  to  what,  from 

164 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

cover  to  cover,  I  do  think  of  it.  I'd  agree  here, 
and  differ  there.  But,  on  the  whole,  I  think  it  is 
a  formulation  that  '11  count.  It  comes  into  the 
guide-post  category." 

"The  road  doesn't  stop — can't  stop.  Every 
thing's  road — bridge." 

"Yes.  Perpetually  more  grandiosely  so.  Effects 
are  cumulative.  ...  A  prolonged,  insensible  rise, 
swellings  and  sinkings,  but  more  swelling  than 
sinking.  At  last  emerges  climax — a  new  continent 
out  of  the  sea.  The  Ark  on  Ararat.  Then  life  goes 
on  upon  that  wheel  .  .  .  until  it's  time  to  rise  again." 

We  finished  our  bread  and  meat.  He  leaned 
back  against  the  rock,  his  hands  clasped  around 
his  knee.  "It's  an  unco'  strange  warld,"  he  said. 
"Bonny  and  terrible!" 

The  fact  that  we  both  had  Scotland  behind  us, 
though  considerably  nearer  to  him  than  to  me,  had 
its  effect  in  our  relationship.  Now  and  again,  in 
our  frequent  voyaging  together,  he  spoke  of  the 
country  there.  He  had  love  for  it  as  I  had  love  for 
Virginia.  I  think  that  at  times  he  was  homesick 
for  it,  as  certainly  at  times  I  was  homesick  for  Vir 
ginia.  He  said  once:  "Go  a  little  back  and  every 
body  is  kin.  Edinburgh  now,  the  Carse  of  Stirling, 
loch  and  sea!  Step  backward  and  we  mingle  there. 
You  came  a  little  earlier  to  America.  I  came  a 
little  later.  Somewhere,  everything  is  certainly 
one." 

I  recall  a  day  when  we  came  out  blackened  from 
the  Red  Hill  mine  and,  riding  back  to  Landon, 
were  caught  in  a  great  drive  of  wind  and  rain  and 
took  refuge  in  the  log  house  of  two  rooms  and  a 

165 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

lean-to  occupied  by  Roger  Bins'  Roger,  his  wife 
and  eight  children  were  perfectly  hospitable.  He 
had  been  there,  or  his  father,  grandfather  and  great 
grandfather  had  been  there  for  a  long  time,  on  the 
scrawny  hillside,  with  a  kind  of  view  and  a  kind 
of  garden-patch.  They  had  welcomed  passers-by, 
" strangers,"  taken  their  bit  of  contact,  their  sup  of 
news,  and  settled  back  when  the  "strangers"  went 
on.  The  storm  over,  we  remounted  and  rode  away. 

"There's  a  seam  that  runs  around  the  globe!"  said 
Maxwell.  "It's  peat.  Low-order  energy.  Getting 
relatively  lower  and  lower — getting  covered  over. 
Perhaps  miners  will  dig  it  out  one  day,  exploit  it, 
use  it,  as  we  use  peat  and  coal.  There's  a  law,  I 
hold,  of  retardation.  The  environment  grows  hos 
tile  to  Roger  Bins  in  the  degree  that  it's  quickened. 
Can't  keep  up — can't  even  stay  put — sinking — sink 
ing — becomes  a  left-over,  a  left-behind.  A  creeper — 
a  racer — and  the  interval  widening.  A  left-behind 
species,  a  barely  man,  while  Man  goes  on.  One  day 
there  was  a  settling  of  the  dregs  called  Apes.  The 
same  thing  goes  on  to-day.  Bins  and  plenty  of 
others,  city  and  country,  and  up  and  down.  They 
come  on,  but,  relatively  speaking,  slower  and  slower. 
.  .  .  An  under  species  in  all  its  degrees." 

"That's  a  proclamation  of  aristocracy." 

"I  have  no  objection  to  the  word,  so  that  it's 
properly  understood." 

"If  Bins  thinks  anything  he  thinks  that  he's 
within  the  aristocracy." 

"Yes.  I  have  known  millionaire  and  university 
and  ecclesiastical  Binses.  There  are  a  lot  of  royal 
Binses." 

1 66 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"Your  species  finds  you  out  wherever  you  are.'* 

"Precisely.  .  .  .  Whoever  had  any  right  to  suppose 
that  out  of  the  human  species  would  not  grow 
another  species — out  of  man  more  than  man  ?  Then 
comes  a  day  when  what  is  left  is  classed  as  simply 
human." 

We  came  upon  Landon  in  a  great  golden  glow  of 
after-rain.  A  bit  of  rainbow  hung  against  a  yet 
dark  cloud.  "But  all  move,"  I  said.  "When  the 
bell  rings  for  their  day  the  slow  will  come  upward, 
too." 

"Oh  yes,"  answered  Maxwell.  "That  is  the  rain 
bow — and  I'm  not  denying  that  the  rainbow  has 
some  kind  of  reality.  But  Binses  around  the  world 
will  have  to  do  some  hard  work!" 

"Perhaps  the  racer  here  is  retarded,  too.  Perhaps 
there  is  an  order  out  of  sight  before  us.  Perhaps 
the  fleetest  here  has  hard  work  to  do.  Perhaps  what 
you  call  the  aristocracy,  the  very  vanguard  as  we 
think  it,  itself  fell  out,  straggled,  malingered,  was 
left  in  the  rear — now  itself  has  to  catch  up.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  you  think  you  see  the  twinkling  of  feet 
before  you." 

"Very  like!"  said  Maxwell.  "The  caravan  before 
the  caravan.  .  .  .  All  right!  Let  Bins  some  day 
catch  the  twinkling  of  feet  before  him." 

I  recall  another  day.  There  was  a  tract  to  be 
examined  too  far  from  Landon  for  riding.  We  went 
by  train,  with  us  Captain  Joyce,  one  of  the  company 
lawyers.  Getting  off  at  a  flag-station,  we  found 
there  the  owner  of  the  land  with  horses.  We  waited 
until  the  train  had  passed,  then  rode  quietly  into 
the  woods.  It  was  not  on  the  cards  to  make  dis- 

167 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

play  of  destination  and  purpose.     Parisia  or  other 
spies  in  the  land  might  be  watching. 

We  spent  some  hours  upon  this  man's  acres. 
The  lawyer,  who  was  a  very  quick,  expansive,  jesting, 
good  fellow  and  sympathetic  with  the  farmer  and 
his  wife,  talked  with  the  two  at  the  corner  of  their 
crumbling  porch.  Papers  passed  between  them. 
We  had  country  dinner,  got  back  to  the  flag-station, 
took  the  ingoing  train.  Presently  some  trouble  up 
the  line  halted  us,  kept  us  waiting  half  an  hour. 
We  sat  in  an  almost  empty  car,  and  Captain  Joyce 
fell  upon  discourse.  He  was  in  a  good  humor.  The 
man's  holding  was  wanted  against  the  glittering, 
widening  future  of  the  company,  and  he  could  get 
it,  and  get  it  cheaper  than  Colonel  Ringgold  and 
Martin  and  others  had  thought  possible.  He  talked. 
Maxwell  put  in  an  occasional  question  or  comment 
in  his  voice  dry  as  Sahara's  sands.  I  sat  and  lis 
tened.  Captain  Joyce  embarked  upon  business, 
politics,  and  the  country  at  large.  Arthur  was 
in  the  White  House,  but  next  year  would  see  a 
presidential  election.  Names  came  into  Captain 
Joyce's  talk — Republican  names,  Elaine  and  others; 
Democrat  names,  Cleveland  and  others ;  the  People's 
party,  in  a  tone  and  with  a  grimace  of  doubt  mixed 
with  amusement.  There  was  certainly  a  possibility, 
after  long  years  of  under  dog,  of  a  Democratic  vic 
tory.  The  country  was  getting  out  of  the  worst 
post-bellum  tangles.  Captain  Joyce  saw  Prosperity 
and  described  the  jade.  Her  most  prominent  feat 
ures  were  bigger  and  bigger  combinations  of  capi 
tal,  and  underneath,  like  mouth  beneath  nose,  ever 
skilfuller  and  skilfuller  lawyers.  Press  and  legisla- 

168 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

tures  made,  as  it  were,  fields  for  the  working  (for 
the  good  of  all)  of  Money  and  Law.  I  even  divined 
that  he  had  an  eye  to  the  school  and  the  pulpit. 
In  his  personal  aspect  he  was  very  jolly,  likable. 
Dupuy  said  that  he  was  known  to  have  hanged 
Justice,  but  Dupuy  said  many  bitter  things.  The 
chief  engineer  listened,  put  in  a  slight  word  now  and 
then  in  a  voice  dry  as  oak  leaves  in  January.  At 
last  he  said,  "How  about  action  as  a  totality?" 

"That's  not  possible.  Must  have  incentive — 
something  to  pull  against — somebody  to  compete 
with,  defeat!  Must  fight — conquer!  Contest  of 
wits,  you  know,  and  all  that." 

"The  irresistible  force  must  continue  to  meet  the 
immovable  body?" 

"That's  a  way  of  putting  it." 

"Horns  locked  to  eternity.  .  .  .  Bull  similes!" 

The  block  up  the  road  got  itself  removed.  The 
whistle  shrieked  and  we  went  on  into  town. 


169 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

L \NDON  grew  all  the  time.  When  I  had  been 
there  a  year  I  saw  how  it  had  grown  over  the 
autumn  day  when  Battle  met  Ahasuerus  and  me. 
When  I  had  been  there  two  years  and  more  it  had 
six  thousand  people.  The  Debenham  &  Atlantic 
was  an  actuality.  At  night,  when  there  occurred  a 
run,  furnace  glare  reddened  the  sky  to  a  strange 
impermanent  sunrise.  There  were  streets  where 
had  been  none,  houses  where  had  stood  pine-trees. 
Two-story  houses  rose,  better  houses  for  the  higher- 
up  people.  The  huddle  of  houses  for  hand-workers 
grew  into  great  and  greater  huddles,  but  the  houses 
stayed  mean.  Along  Main  Street  were  rising,  fast 
as  mushrooms,  brick  stores,  a  larger  hotel,  a  news 
paper  office,  buildings  of  various  sorts.  Paving  was 
in  contemplation,  sewerage,  a  glare  of  street-light 
ing.  Enterprises  and  enterprises  had  started  up. 
A  number  stood  in  the  magic  rounds  of  the  Landon 
Coal  and  Iron,  the  Landon  &  Gulf,  and  the  Deben 
ham  &  Atlantic.  Others  were  players  for  themselves. 
Up  the  river  Parisia  wore  a  blighted  look. 

Men  and  women  from  everywhere  might  be  found 
collecting,  streams  into  a  pool,  at  Landon.  One 
recognized  America,  Europe,  a  little  of  Asia,  a  quan 
tity  of  Africa.  And  in  the  air  the  ghost  of  red  men 

170 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

and  the  creatures  that  they  hunted.  And  under 
foot,  down  and  down  and  down  again,  the  carbon 
world,  the  iron  world.  At  times,  when  upon  hot 
summer  nights  sleep  did  not  come  swiftly,  when  I 
sat  in  my  window  that  gave  over  a  wide  stretch  of 
low  roofs  and  broken,  straggling  wood,  and  sky 
flushed  by  that  furnace  glare,  I  sank  with  imagina 
tion  or  memory  through  the  damp  heat  into  a  yet 
heavier,  closer  atmosphere,  far  and  far  away,  down 
in  time,  heavier,  closer,  steamy,  heated.  .  .  .  Here 
was  the  uncouthly  high  and  broad;  here  the  ferns 
and  grasses,  weird  trees,  the  very  moss  of  to-day 
high  overhead.  Dense,  palpitant,  sluggish,  choked, 
gigantic,  the  Carboniferous  stretched  around.  Forms 
that  were  not  fallen  trees  nor  banks  of  black  soil, 
nor  arms  of  the  marsh  moved.  .  ,  .  Heavy  voices 
were  about  me,  like  the  voice  of  the  furnaces.  .  .  . 
I  gasped  in  the  un-thin  air!  Up!  And  here  was 
Landon  living  upon  that — and  here  was  that  living 
in  Landon.  I  looked  up  into  the  great  night  sky. 
Landon,  too,  all  of  us,  were  at  the  bottom  of — what  ? 
Something  there  thinking,  back  thinking,  down  into 
our  strata.  .  .  . 

Two  years.  Miriam  was  a  nurse  in  a  great  hos 
pital  in  Baltimore.  In  the  two  years  I  had  had  a 
month's  holiday,  dividing  it  between  Flowerfield 
and  Restwell.  Miriam  had  come  from  Baltimore 
for  a  week.  Miriam  and  Michael — and  each  a 
traveler  who  had  not  been  idle  in  the  two  years, 
and  so  who  kept  together,  kept  together.  It  was  two 
explorers  meeting,  each  with  a  great  tale  to  tell, 
with  maps  of  life  to  compare,  with  knowledge  grow 
ing  from  the  long  marches  of  each,  with  the  urge  of 

171 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

the  undiscovered  beckoning,  beckoning!  Two  dis 
coverers  who  loved  heart  and  mind  and  soul. 

Two  years  and  more!  I  wrote  to  her,  she  wrote 
to  me,  each  Sunday. 

Two  years  slipped  toward  three  years.  Landon 
swelled  each  year,  a  bigger  and  bigger  Landon. 
The  South  was  growing,  the  country  growing.  With 
Cleveland  in  the  White  House,  time  had  swung  in, 
after  many  years,  a  Democratic  administration. 
The  Democratic  South  felt  itself  moving  toward 
power.  Business  enterprise  began  to  grow  thickly, 
south  of  Mason  and  Dixon.  Capital  came,  com 
panies  formed,  companies  began  to  combine.  Cor 
porations,  trusts,  swam  on  the  horizon  line.  All 
the  country  was  growing  in  money  wealth.  Money 
flowed  into  rivers.  If  you  owned  the  river-banks 
and  used  them  for  villa  sites  and  inclosed  parks, 
there  were  due  to  ensue  difficulties  as  to  general 
irrigation.  .  .  . 

I  worked  hard.  As  Landon  grew,  as  the  Landon 
Coal  and  Iron  perfected  its  holdings,  dug  its  mines, 
engineer  duties  changed  aspect.  There  was  no 
longer  the  simple  hard  day's  riding,  geologizing, 
indicating,  reporting,  the  straightforward  construc 
tion,  supervision,  of  the  first  year  or  two.  Occupa 
tion  was  abundant  but  nondescript.  Time  passed. 
Colonel  Ringgold  became  president  of  the  company, 
and  with  unexpectedness  the  directors  offered  Max 
well  the  position  of  general  superintendent.  He 
declined  it.  "If  I  went  'up' — as  they  call  it — you 
might  get  my  place,  Michael!  But  I  don't  care  to 
be  general  superintendent.  ...  I  sha'n't  stay  here 
longer  than  next  year,  I  think."  He  sat  down  and 

172 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

stared  out  of  the  office  window,  then  came  back  to 
me.  "I  have  an  old  friend  and  distant  kinsman  in 
England  who  is  down  for  African  exploration.  Head 
of  the  Nile,  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  and  so  forth. 
I  rather  think  I'll  go  with  him.  D'ye  want  to  come 
along?" 

"I  want  to  with  one  part  of  me — very  decidedly 
want  to.  But  I  stay  here,  I  think." 

"You're  an  explorer  after  the  deep  I,"  he  an 
swered.  "I  knew  that  early  in  our  acquaintance. 
...  I  suppose  that  the  opening  up  of  Africa  is  on 
the  big  voyage  chart,  and  I  suppose  your  explora 
tion  to  be  on  it." 

" We're  both  romantics,"  I  said.  "I  take  your 
Africa  and  walk  about  it  inside.  Old  Nile  and 
Mountains  of  the  Moon  and  tropical  forest,  the 
waste  and  the  sand,  the  lakes,  the  cataracts  and 
water-holes." 

"And  the  tribes  of  native  black  men — " 

"And  the  tribes  of  naked  black  men.  The  chim 
panzees,  the  hippopotamuses,  parrots,  and  croco 
diles.  Themselves  and  their  correspondences." 

He  sat  tilted  in  his  chair,  looking  at  me.  "When 
are  you  going  to  organize  all  that  you  do?" 

I  answered  truthfully.    "I  don't  know  how." 

"You  have  remarkably,"  he  said,  "the  sense  of 
the  presence  of  the  universe  and  of  all  time." 

I  spoke.  "Hold  yourself  very  deep  and  steady 
and  perceive  matters.  .  .  .  Event  now!  Everywhere 
from  the  world  of  the  molecules  and  below,  to  the 
hugest  synthesis  we  can  grasp.  Event  in  all  its 
range,  physical,  emotional,  mental,  and  what  we 
call  spiritual.  And  up  and  down  and  round  about 

i73 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

in  Time.  Event  in  my  body,  in  your  body,  in  this 
room,  this  building,  this  town — all  bodies,  towns, 
countrysides.  Event  in  this  state — in  America — 
event  in  the  world.  Carry  it  over  to  other  worlds, 
not  forgetting  the  ether  between.  To  suns  and 
systems  of  suns.  Event.  All  event.  Feel  it  mul 
titudinous,  beyond  multitude,  multitude  distilled 
from  multitudes.  Event.  Life  yesterday,  to-day, 
and  forever.  Nebula  to  nebula  and  repeat.  The 
universe,  all,  visible  and  invisible,  the  invisible  just 
as  real,  just  as  eventual  as  the  visible.  Event  and 
over  event.  Event  made  of  events.  Motion,  emo 
tion,  intense  and  shining  movement — mind-motion 
— spirit,  intense,  intense,  light  of  light  and  heat  of 
heat,  life  of  life!  Divine  it  somehow,  spread  into 
it.  ...  Of  course  I  mean  that  it  is  perceived  almost 
infinitely  too  palely,  almost  infinitely  too  far  away, 
almost  infinitely  too  infrequently,  too  tenuously. 
It's  what  we  call  a  concept  now.  But  once  strong 
enough,  the  concept  would  become  percept — apper- 
cept.  We  should  walk  into  a  new,  an  immense, 
reality.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  I  am  talking  insanely?" 

"No,  I  do  not.  That's  overman.  .  .  .  Well,  I  sup 
pose  it's  the  only  reasonable  ambition!1* 

That  talk  with  Maxwell  had  leadings  forth,  at 
the  moment  not  seen.  At  the  moment  we  fell  back 
to  work.  The  days  went  on.  A  new  general  super 
intendent  came  in.  Landon  continued  in  its  tread 
ing  around  itself  an  ever  larger  circle, 

By  now  I  knew  pretty  thoroughly  the  older  layers 
of  population.  In  a  certain  sense  Landon  was  home. 
I  must  feel — did  feel — the  energy  there,  the  driving 
through  and  over  obstacles,  the  sunniness  on  the 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

whole  of  men's  hopes,  the  clasping  hands,  the  de 
termined  feet.  So  much  was  good,  so  much  was 
promising!  There  was  the  feeling,  splendid  and 
precious,  of  strength.  In  much  it  might  be  mis 
applied,  yet  it  was  there,  inestimable. 

I  knew,  of  this  population  of  all  stations,  hun 
dreds  of  names  and  faces,  with  a  little  of  the  real 
man  clinging  thereto.  A  few  scores  I  knew  better, 
and  out  of  these  a  handful  better  yet.  Landon  had 
a  "social"  life.  Officials,  men  starting  various  en 
terprises,  professional  men,  had  by  now  brought 
wives  and  families.  There  was  visiting,  entertain 
ing,  among  these.  There  was  plenty  of  dear,  good 
people.  Young  men,  away  from  home  and  kindred, 
were  in  Landon  in  numbers;  and  these  families, 
making  them  welcome,  gave  them  new  ties  and 
feeling  of  home.  There  was  the  church  life.  Five 
denominations  now,  each  with  its  church  and  Sunday- 
school,  each  in  its  own  way  helping  along.  And 
there  was  a  life  of  the  street,  of  saloon  and  brothel. 
And  there  was  an  alley  life  for  negroes.  And  near 
the  furnaces,  in  a  wide  huddle  of  mean  houses  there 
was  a  life  of  white  laborers  and  the  smallest  em 
ployees.  Landon  had  now  a  newspaper  and  was 
building  a  theater  and  better  school-houses.  Evi 
dently  it  was  to  become  a  railroad  center.  And 
more  and  more  the  glare  from  furnace  stacks  red 
dened  the  night  sky.  .  .  .  There  was  in  Landon  power, 
but  again  and  again  came  an  ache  with  the  power. 

In  these  three  years  I  read  no  little.  There  were 
the  evenings  and  the  Sundays. 

Then  suddenly — or  then  quietly  after  long  prep 
aration — I  was  again  borne  afar. 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Maxwell  and  I  sat  in  his  office  alone.  He  had 
despatched  Jim  Standard  upon  some  errand.  There 
were  letters,  maps,  beside  him  upon  his  desk,  and 
as  he  talked  his  fingers  rested  on  a  long  envelop 
with  a  British  stamp.  What  he  wanted  was  that  I 
should  go  with  him  to  Africa.  What  he  had  beneath 
his  hand  was  the  formal  offer  to  him  of  a  post  in  the 
organizing  expedition.  The  latter's  objective  was 
a  further  understanding  of  the  headwaters  of  the 
Nile  and  a  push  across  Africa  by  way  of  the  Congo. 
The  expedition  was  expected  to  serve  science  as 
well  as  sheer  exploration.  It  was  large,  rightly 
equipped  and  financed.  It  offered  Maxwell  a  very 
good  salary  for  his  services  as  geologist  and  engi 
neer  and  it  empowered  him  to  choose  and  employ 
an  assistant. 

"That  is  where  you  come  in,"  said  Maxwell. 
"I  know  these  men.  They're  my  kind.  It's  all 
right.  Now  I  want  you!  ...  If  you  don't  know 
that  you're  after  cognition  and  development  of  your 
self,  I  know  it.  And  I'm  not  meaning  the  selfish 
self,  either!  You  best  know  if  something  like  this 
isn't  in  your  day's  work." 

He  offered  me  no  less  than  I  was  receiving  from 
the  Landon  company.  I  might  be  from  America 
two  years — perhaps  even  three  years.  I  said  that 
I  must  have  a  fortnight  in  which  to  determine.  I 
took  a  day  and  night  to  walk  around  it  as  well  as 
I  might.  Then  I  wrote  to  Miriam. 

The  letter  went,  lay,  I  knew,  in  her  hands,  was 
read  by  her.  Waiting,  I  worked  on,  with  the  mat 
ter  as  far  as  might  be  out  of  my  head.  Three  nights 
after  the  letter  was  sent  I  came  into  my  room 

176 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

and,  putting  out  the  lamp,  sat  in  the  eastern  window. 
There  was  no  moon;  a  quiet  night  with  the  stars 
burning  softly.  Minutes  passed.  .  .  .  Then  rose  like 
a  fountain  out  of  ground  the  consciousness  of 
Miriam.  She  was  present  in  me — she  was  not  pres 
ent  out  of  me.  There  came  a  profound  calm,  pro 
found,  yet  full  of  the  sense  of  event.  There  was  a 
filling  out  of  nature,  to  the  extent  that  what  had  been 
in  appearance  two  orbs  became  in  some  sort  one. 
Something  made  naught  of  space,  naught  of  time, 
naught  of  outward  form.  Miriam  and  I  talked  with 
out  words,  met  in  a  large  land  behind  Time  and 
Space  and  Form  as  we  had  known  them. 

It  was  affirmation.  ...  I  saw  that  I  wrent  with 
Maxwell.  I  saw  that  it  was  somehow  indicated 
that  that  had  its  place  in  the  world  of  experi 
ence.  I  saw  that  Miriam  could  as  little  desire  to 
hold  me  as  to  hold  herself  from  the  fullness  of  life. 
I  saw  that  we  were  one  in  the  desire  to  have  knowl 
edge,  growth,  and  to  have  it  more  abundantly.  I 
saw  that  we  played  into  each  other's  hands.  I 
saw  that  the  wealth  of  one  flowed  with  the  wealth 
of  the  other.  .  .  .  There  came  an  increase  over  even 
that  perception.  Things  that  love  stay  together. 
I  knew  now  how  profoundly  she  was  with  me.  I 
knew  that  she  was  me.  ...  Wherever  she  might  be — 
wherever  I  might  be — we  could  rise  the  one  in  the 
other. 


177 


CHAPTER  XIX 

EXPERIENCE  widened  again  for  me.  I  wrote  to 
•L*  Major  Dallas,  to  General  Warringer,  and  to 
Aunt  Sarah.  When  I  had  the  return  letters  I  told 
Maxwell  that  I  would  go.  He  nodded. 

"All  right!  I  am  glad  that  you  have  determined 
so.  Will  you  ride  out  this  afternoon  and  see  what 
is  the  matter  at  the  Red  Mine?" 

Maxwell  and  I  resigned  from  the  employ  of  the 
Landon  Coal  and  Iron.  The  company  was  good 
enough  to  say  that  it  regretted  our  going  and  to 
offer  an  increase  of  salary.  But  we  must  go,  and 
the  company  turned  without  more  ado  to  a  list  of 
names  of  engineers. 

I  had  affection  by  now  for  many,  for  much,  in 
Landon.  Landon  in  much  would  stay  with  me.  I 
had  learned  here,  I  had  grown  here.  I  had  come  to 
feel  the  striving  soul  behind  all  this  industrial  urge, 
to  respect  the  wrestler  with  industrial  imperfection. 
He  was  president  and  manager,  he  was  engineer 
and  builder,  he  was  clerk  and  operator,  he  was 
spademan  and  pickman.  Up  and  down  and  all 
around,  he  was  really  one,  though  he  had  not  wak 
ened  to  that  fact.  I  regarded  my  own  boyhood  at 
Restwell.  I  had  not  recognized  it  then,  but  in  all 
that  countryside  of  farms  and  villages,  what  had 
obtained  but  the  same  struggle?  The  farmer  and 

178 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

his  men,  white  and  black,  the  miller  and  the  smith, 
the  boatmen  on  the  river,  and  the  village  storekeeper. 
...  I  felt  again  the  heat  of  the  sun  when  I  used  to 
hoe  corn  with  Ahasuerus  and  Mandy's  Jim,  when  I 
used  to  plow  the  long  field.  All  one  with  these 
furnace  and  railroad  workers!  And  professional 
men,  schoolmen,  artists,  inventors,  men  of  research 
and  experiment,  shapers  of  mind-matter — these,  too, 
were  tillers  and  producers,  transmuters  of  energy, 
spreaders  of  food  before  the  infant  man  that  is  to 
be.  All  one,  changing  and  sustaining,  gathered  into 
the  vast  We,  the  world  I.  Where,  in  the  whole, 
stopped  the  Worker — where,  in  the  whole,  began  the 
Thinker  ?  The  Worker  thought,  the  Thinker  worked. 

I  was  leaving  Landon,  and  I  saw  now  how,  despite 
all  doubts,  I  did  like  Landon. 

And  I  liked  Mrs.  Sayre  and  the  doctor,  and  Father 
Vesey  and  Mr.  Allen,  and  Walter  Dupuy  and  Battle, 
Bob  and  Ferry,  Mirandy  and  Harris,  too,  and  Lula, 
the  waitress,  and  Bruno,  the  doctor's  old  setter. 
They  all  made  a  clamor  of  home  about  me  when  I 
must  go. 

Mrs.  Sayre  sat  one  evening  upon  the  veranda, 
waving  to  and  fro  her  palm-leaf  fan.  The  doctor 
was  in  his  room,  Father  Vesey  away  upon  some 
parochial  business,  Mr.  Allen  had  just  said  good  night 
and  was  gone.  I  sat  upon  the  step,  my  eyes  on  the 
furnace  flare,  reddening  low-hanging  clouds.  When 
one  paid  attention  the  furnace  throb  was  there  as 
well,  dull  in  the  warm,  damp  air.  Mrs.  Sayre  began 
to  speak.  She  had  a  slow,  lulling  voice. 

"Travel,  now.  There  are  all  kinds  of  travel. 
Doctor  travels,  lying  in  his  hammock  there — and 

179 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Walter  Dupuy  travels — and  you  were  traveling, 
Michael,  even  before  Mr.  Maxwell  asked  you  to 
go  to  Africa  with  him." 

"Yes,"  I  answered.    "I  was— I  am." 

"Yes,  I  know  it.  I  am  a  large,  stay-at-home  body 
who  seems  somehow  to  have  nursed  you  all,  nursed 
and  managed  for  you  all.  For  a  long  time."  Her 
fan  went  tranquilly  to  and  fro.  "You  leam  to  notice 
little  things  when  you  nurse  and  manage  for  all. 
You're  on  the  lookout  for  signs.  ...  I  suppose,  after 
all,  one  rears  children  for  travel .  .  .  nurses,  manages, 
gives  them  a  base  to  start  from." 

"You've  traveled  pretty  far  yourself,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  I  travel  very  slowly!  I  have  so  many  little 
things  to  think  of.  Seeds  in  the  earth — "  She  ceased 
to  speak  and  sat,  slowly  and  tranquilly  moving  the 
fan  to  and  fro. 

It  was  springtime  and  violets  and  daffodils  were 
blooming  beside  the  veranda.  I  saw,  as  it  were, 
plant  life  underground,  the  tree  and  the  rose  under 
ground,  over  all  the  earth.  All  animals  little  and 
warmly  laired,  all  birds  nested  ...  all  men  and 
women,  the  oldest,  the  strongest,  the  wisest,  cradle- 
babes.  Traveling  slowly,  with  multitudes  and  mul 
titudes  of  little  things — 

Ferry  came  in  at  the  gate  and  up  the  path  and 
steps  and  sat  down  with  his  head  resting  against 
her  chair.  I  said  good  night  and  left  them,  and  at 
my  own  window  my  mother  rose  in  me. 

Maxwell  and  I  finished  apace  at  Landon.  He  was 
a  scimitar-edge  and  a  dry  light. 

The  men  to  take  our  places  came  in.  We  showed 
them  the  lines  and  the  steeds  that  had  to  be  driven. 

180 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

The  office  gave  us  a  present,  to  each  as  handsome 
a  rifle  as  money  could  buy.  The  Landon  News  made 
a  full  page  of  our  departure  and  African  exploration. 
Hundreds  in  Landon  shook  hands  and  wished  us  well. 

Ahasuerus  was  to  go  with  me.  He  had  made 
determined  appeal  and  I  went  to  Maxwell  about  it. 
He  listened,  then:  "I  don't  see  any  reason  against 
it,  if  he  wants  to  go.  He's  strong  and  devoted. 
That's  the  kind  such  expeditions  want." 

I  said  good-by  to  Mrs.  Sayre's,  to  all  at  the  office, 
to  Landon.  Maxwell  was  already  gone  to  New  York, 
where  business  of  sorts  awaited  him.  The  east- 
bound  express  roared  in.  Bob  and  Ferry  and  Battle, 
Father  Vesey,  Mr.  Allen,  and  a  half-dozen  more 
waved  and  cried  farewell.  We  left  the  dark  station; 
the  houses  went  by,  the  furnaces,  the  hills. 
Ahasuerus  and  I,  three  and  a  half  years  older  than 
when  first  we  had  come  to  Landon,  were  going  from 
Landon,  going  home  to  Flowerfield  and  Rest  well, 
then  going  overseas,  afar  and  afar. 

The  train  roared  through  the  landscape  toward 
Virginia.  I  sat  in  a  brown  study.  I  was  going  afar, 
into  I  knew  not  what  of  physical  adventure.  Mental 
adventure,  adventure  of  the  imagination,  I  knew. 
In  some  measure  I  could  feel  with,  feel  into,  all  ad 
venture.  I  took  it  as  scientifically  true  that,  could 
all  of  me  speak,  it  could  speak  of  all  things.  But  it 
was  blocked  from  finding  voice.  ...  In  my  inner 
world  I  had  come  to  where  I  was  in  a  manner  keep 
ing  time,  waiting  on  a  slow  assimilation,  waiting 
for  some  strengthening  of  pulse  and  forward  thrust. 
There  was  a  cry  within  me  for  flooding  light,  color, 
fervent  heat.  I  knew  that  it  was  for  light  and  heat 

181 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

from  the  interior.  But  it  retarded  its  coming,  and 
there  grew  in  me  an  urge  toward  review,  recapitu 
lation,  seeing  where  I  had  been  wrong,  mistaken, 
bettering  perhaps,  seeing  how  to  take  apart,  dissolve, 
remold  the  past.  The  feeling  was  obscure,  deep. 
But  I  was  going  to  old,  interior  continents  and  search 
them  over  again.  .  ,  .  And  there  had  grown  a  longing, 
too,  for  other,  outward  contacts,  for  wider  surges 
here.  So  had  run  my  mind  when  finally  I  had 
agreed  with  Maxwell. 

I  sat  and  mused  and  the  train  rushed  on.  It  was 
taking  me  toward  much,  and  it  was  taking  me  first 
to  Restwell  and  Flowerfield.  Miriam  was  with  me, 
thinking  with  me. 

A  man  came  and  sat  beside  me.  He  had  a  little, 
withered  face  and  figure  and  very  limpid,  untroubled 
eyes.  He  held  a  book  in  his  hand,  and  I  saw  that  it 
was  an  anthology  that  I  knew. 

"I  like  to  read,"  he  said,  and  presently.  " We're 
all  a  big  book.  Le  lime  de  Vunivers.  A  great  story 
book  to  some  upper  layer.  That  layer's  dream  life. 
It's  reverie  when  it  rests  in  the  shade." 

I  turned  the  pages  of  the  book.  "  Don't  you  think 
we  may  be  our  own  reverie?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  do!"  he  nodded.  "Quite  sure  of  it. 
It's  the  personal  pronouns  that  get  in  the  way." 

"Did  you  ever,"  I  asked,  "achieve  impersonality?" 

"It  depends  upon  what  you  mean  by  that.  Do 
you  mean  a  larger  personality?" 

"It  may  come  to  the  same  thing." 

"I  think  it  does,"  he  said.  "These  things  are  per 
fectly  definite.  The  trouble  with  folk  is  that  they 
will  not  recognize  grades  of  cognition.  It's  a  long, 

182 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

long  stair  to  the  last,  biggest  personality.  But  it's 
wonderful  just  to  have  lifted  a  step." 

"Do  you  think  there's  a  common  experience 
among  those  who  have  'lifted  a  step'?" 

"They  come  under  a  common  sky.  That  means 
a  great  deal.  But  there  would  be  always  variation 
in  experience — naturally." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "But  fast  experience  would  be, 
in  a  way,  pooled." 

"Yes.  Recognized  as  pooled.  It's  been  done 
always,  but  not  cognized  as  done.  Of  course  it  is 
the  food  of  the  new  experience." 

"I  see  that.  .  .  .  We  are  still  occupied  with  the 
chase — with  the  garnering  of  food.  Still  in  a  struggle 
with  raw  material." 

"Yes.  But  of  course  the  artist,  the  conscious 
festival,  comes  along." 

"Then  after  a  while,  when  it  is  ripe,  that  plane 
also  becomes  food  for  the  gods.  The  willing 
sacrifice." 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Each  stage  the  womb  of  the  higher." 

"Yes." 

We  sat  looking  out  of  the  window.  "It's  all  ws," 
said  the  man.  "Knowing  that,  we  know  a  good  deal. 
We've  seen  our  Jacob's  ladder." 

"The  profound  quest — the  real  Grail." 

"Yes.  / 

'It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken.' 

The  poets  have  always  dimly  known  it,  up  in  the 
dome  of  their  house  where  the  angels  live." 

183 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

Before  long  he  left  me,  the  train  bringing  him  to 
his  station.  I  said  that  I  hoped  we  should  meet 
again.  "Oh,  we  will!"  he  answered.  "Life's  full  of 
these  encounters,  when  you  begin  to  look  for  them." 

The  train  roared  on,  the  landscape  glided  by. 
There  stretched  a  night  between  me  and  Restwell. 
I  lay  in  my  berth  and  lifted  the  window-shade. 
Dark  woods  were  going  by,  then  came  a  calm  and 
broad  stretch  of  country  with  the  horizon  stretched 
afar.  Jupiter  hung  in  the  sky.  There  stole  into 
me  from  the  upper  realms,  cool,  pure,  exalted  and 
exalting,  a  sense  of  the  greatness,  of  the  utter  great 
ness,  of  the  destiny  of  us  all.  .  .  .  When  I  slept  it 
was  with  that  clean  and  quiet  aroma  still  about  me. 

When  I  awoke  Virginia  fields,  Virginia  mountains, 
were  framed  in  the  window. 


184 


CHAPTER    XX 

RESTWELL  made  much  of  Ahasuerus  and  me. 
General  Warringer  and  Aunt  Harriet  had  ac 
quiesced  in  my  going  with  Maxwell,  but  not  before, 
as  in  duty  bound,  they  had  set  forth  a  row  of  objec 
tions.  Aunt  Harriet's  resolved  into  the  propositions, 
that  I  might  be  killed — that  so  I  could  not  marry 
and  carry  on  the  family  fortunes;  that,  while  there 
might  result  some  distinction  from  being  an  explorer 
(a  successful  one),  she  had  noticed  that  men  who 
went  into  wild  places  for  any  length  of  time  carried 
it  around  with  them  ever  afterward  and  lost  touch 
with  the  society  into  which  they  were  born.  "We 
met  an  Arctic  man  once  at  Old  Point.  Well,  when 
it  came  to  the  amenities  he  was  nothing  but  a  polar 
bear  walking  upright!" 

I  said  that  if  I  came  back  like  a  rhinoceros  or 
crocodile  she  must  have  me  shot. 

She  looked  at  me  a  little  wistfully.  "You  know, 
Michael,  you're  the  only  bit  of  Dugald  and  Gary 
we've  got.  More  than  that,  you  seem  somehow  to 
hold  and  bring  back  father.  .  .  .  You've  got  a  faculty, 
somehow,  of  enwrapping  and  carrying  with  you  a 
lot  of  things — SL  lot  of  people,  even."  She  sighed. 
"I'm  not  that  kind  myself,  but  I  know  that  there 
are  all-around  folk." 

185 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

I  kissed  her  and  said  that  we  were  in  the  same 
boat.  I  knew  that  there  must  be  all-around  folk — 
but  I  was  only  a  little  of  that  myself — nothing  like, 
nothing  like,  the  all-around  that  I  could  image.  We 
sat  on  the  summer-house  step,  and  I  found  that  we 
could  talk,  in  some  ways,  as  my  mother  and  I  had 
used  to  talk  ...  no !  as  my  mother  and  I  talked. 

General  Warringer,  likewise,  was  concerned  about 
my  future.  "This  life's  a  bitter  race,  Michael.  If 
you  begin  to  step  aside  to  pick  flowers,  down  you 
go — smothered  under!  I've  seen  a  lot  of  men — 
men  with  brains — scheduled  just  so  to  be  poor  and 
unknown  all  the  rest  of  their  lives.  If  you  had 
chosen  to  stay  you  could  have  had  Maxwell's  place 
when  he  went.  As  Landon  grew  you  could  have  left 
engineering,  become  assistant  superintendent — su 
perintendent — what  not.  You've  got  brains  and  a 
steady-going  energy — not  flashy.  You  might  have 
gone  straight  on  up  to  the  top.  You've  got  pull 
here,  too,  remember.  There's  no  helping  you  in 
Africa.  Your  savings,  too.  I  had  it  in  mind  to 
speak  to  you  about  that.  As  you  earned  and  saved 
I  could  invest  for  you  in  a  stock  that  '11  presently  be 
paying — I  don't  know  what  it  won't  be  paying! 
And  if,  after  a  time,  you  wanted  to  speculate,  I 
should  see  to  it  that  you  got  the  inside  word.  This 
country's  traveling,  double-quick,  toward  the  biggest 
kind  of  expansion!  You  might  become  a  rich  man 
— rich  and  useful — the  most  valuable  kind  of  citi 
zen.  But  if  you  break  with  the  run  now  it's  going 
to  be  hard  to  get  back.  As  I  said  before,  this  world's 
a  breathless  'Keep  your  place,  or  I'll  take  it!'" 

I  said  that  I  knew  that  it  was  a  serious  step, 

186 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

but  that,  as  far  as  engineering  went,  I  felt  that  I 
could  always  find  employment.  I  had  no  quarrel 
with  engineering  as  a  profession.  But  I  did  not  feel 
myself  fitted  for  the  further  course  he  had  out 
lined.  It  might  be  a  mistake,  my  going  with  Max 
well,  but  I  had  felt  a  strong  inward  urging.  I  thought 
that  I  should  come  back,  and  that  the  experience 
would  not  be  loss.  ...  I  said  that  I  was  grateful  to 
him,  and  to  many  at  Landon. 

"That's  all  right.  I  gather  that  you  gave  very 
good  work  in  return.  .  .  .  Well,  if  you  won't,  you 
won't,  Michael!  .  .  .  Royal  is  going  to  be  a  rich  man 
— rich  and  powerful.'* 

"If  I  had  been  Holbein  or  Rembrandt  I  should 
have  liked  to  paint  Royal." 

Royal  was  at  home  at  the  moment.  But  he  was 
going  to  New  York,  into  a  big  broking  company  in 
Wall  Street.  In  appearance  he  was  so  different 
from  his  father,  and  yet  they  subtly  paired.  The 
son  stood  intellectually  higher  by  a  head.  They  sat, 
as  it  were,  above  and  below  the  salt — but  at  the 
same  board,  in  the  same  castle  hall.  One  must 
give  respect  to  the  castle,  it  was  so  vast  and  powerful. 
London  Tower  or  Carcassonne,  a  thousandfold. 

Dorothea  was  very  friendly.  .  .  .  We  went  out 
together  one  morning  upon  the  river.  It  had  become 
fairy  spring  weather,  bloom  and  song  and  first  ver 
dure.  We  ran  under  the  sweeping  willows,  by  banks 
of  violets  and  bluebells. 

"I  should  like  to  see  Africa  and  Asia  and  all — 
the  old  buildings  and  the  old  lands.  Oh,  Michael, 
you're  lucky!" 

"Why  don't  you  travel?    You  could." 
187 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"Some  day  maybe  I  will  .  .  .  but  I'll  take  myself 
along." 

"Why  don't  you  sort  out  yourself  and  choose  the 
best  traveling-dress?" 

"Oh,  I'm  lazy — except  when  people  get  in  my 
way.  What  do  you  do  when  people  get  in  your  way  ?" 

"They're  in  the  way  because  they're  out  of  the 
way.  Get  them  in  order  inside  you.  Penetrate 
them — understand  them — be  at  one  with  them. 
Then  the  whole  ship  moves  with  the  helmsman's 
hand.  You  and  they  are  one,  you  know."  I  laughed 
at  the  face  she  made.  "Gibberish,  isn't  it?  And 
nine  times  out  of  ten  I  fail  to  practise  my  own  magic. 
.  .  .  All  the  same,  don't  poison  them,  Dorothea! 
If  you  do  you'll  feel  the  pangs." 

"I  like  to  poison  them — starve  them." 

"Stop  it— or  you'll  feel  the  pangs!" 

She  caught  at  the  willows  under  which  we  were 
passing.  "Oh,  I  am  not  so  bad  as  I  make  myself 
out!  .  .  .  Sometimes — often — I  feel  kind  and  good." 
The  boat  went  a  few  strokes  farther.  ' '  Stop  rowing, " 
she  said.  "Let's  rest  here  a  bit.  Go  close  to  the 
bank,  by  the  violets."  I  obeyed.  She  stretched  her 
arms,  then,  leaning  forward,  looked  at  me.  "You 
meet  most  persons,  Michael.  Now  I  want  to  see 
if  you  meet  me!" 

"Fire  away!" 

"Do  you  ever  feel  wicked?" 

"Often." 

"Just  how?  Can  you  feel  yourself  murderer, 
thief,  and  all  the  rest  of  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  to  get  off  the  plane  of  actually  poisoning 

188 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

people  or  jerking  the  bread  out  of  their  mouths.  .  .  . 
When  the  world  looks  lovely,  not  hateful — and  you 
want  all  the  jewelry  in  the  window  .  .  .  but  are  too 
sleepy  to  go  after  it  ...  and  so  you  only  lust  for  it, 
envy  it.  Do  you  know  that,  too?" 

"Yes.  At  times  I  should  like  to  roll  in  gold-dust 
and  violets.11 

"Yes!" 

"A  great  elephant  to  ride  upon — caparisoned — an 
easy,  swaying,  powerful  gait.  No  obstacles — all  the 
crowd  at  once  worshiping  and  getting  out  of  the 


way—" 
"Yes!" 


"Idle  Lakes — and  Mirth  to  row  me — and  Bowers 
of  Acrasy — " 

"H-mm?" 

"The  Faery  Queen.  The  second  book.  It's  a 
perfectly  true  tale." 

"What  else?  Your  elephant  figure  I  do  most  cer 
tainly  understand — though  I  understand  the  others 
likewise." 

"I'd  weary  you  with  all  the  rest.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  bag.  .  .  .  Something  big  and  dark — wind  and 
wave — wishing  just  to  roll  over  and  destroy.  The 
utterest  explosive — wishing  to  rend  sun,  moon,  and 
stars.  Split  them  into  little  pieces.  Blow  them  into 
dust  in  the  wind.  And  without  a  bit  of  better  plan, 
without  any  plan — any  ultimate  idea.  Blank  Noth 
ing — impossible  to  obtain!  But  go  toward  it,  and 
so  save  oneself  trouble.  Decline  to  make  the  God." 

She  stared;  then,  "I  see  .  .  ." 

"It's  the  bottom  of  the  bag.  But  notice,  will  you, 
that  still,  blank  and  mad  as  it  is,  it  assumes  cohesion. 

189 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

It's  to  have  force  to  do  all  that.  ...  So,  after  all, 
it  will  have  to  take  trouble." 

"Yes,  I  see  that." 

"Better  take  the  full  cup  of  finer  effort!  Better 
make  of  yourself  a  world  that  won't  want  to  blow 
its  brains  out!" 

She  sighed.  "Get  me  a  bunch  of  violets  and  let 
us  go  home."  I  picked  her  her  violets,  stepped  back 
into  the  boat,  put  them  in  her  lap,  and  retook  the 
oars.  She  said,  "You  could  have  been  an  evil 
soul." 

"There's  plenty  of  evil  yet.  But  the  soul  wants 
to  change  it  to  good,  Dorothea." 

"But  it  understands  it  still." 

"Yes,  it  understands  it  still." 

We  went  on  beneath  the  willows.  "Did  you  never 
read  The  Faery  Queen?  Well,  read  it  all,  but  es 
pecially  the  second  book."  We  traveled  silently  upon 
the  clear  river.  After  a  while  she  would  have  talked 
of  Miriam.  But  I  did  not  want  to  talk  of  Miriam, 
who  was  Una,  who  was  Alma,  who  was  Belphcebe, 
who  was  Britomart  to  me.  So  at  first  we  spoke  of 
just  the  weather  and  then  of  Restwell  plans,  and  at 
last  she  deliberately  fell  silent,  and  when  I  saw  that 
it  was  deliberate  I  followed  her  lead,  rowing  without 
speaking,  in  a  moving  dream  with  the  long  oar- 
stroke.  She  sat  with  her  eyes  upon  the  violets  in 
her  hand.  We  made  landing  and  I  helped  her  out 
and  we  went  together  up  the  bank  and  toward  the 
house.  But  under  the  wood  where  the  wild  plum 
was  blooming  she  stood  still. 

"Michael  .  .  .  we're  cousins." 

I  nodded. 

190 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"That  ought  to  mean  warm  hearts  toward  each 
other." 

"Agreed." 

She  was  very  close  to  me.  She  put  her  hand  upon 
my  breast.  "Like  me,  Michael  .  .  .  like  me!"  I  felt 
her  breath,  her  cheek  touched  mine.  "Like  me — 
as  I  like  you."  She  kissed  me  and  I  kissed  her. 
But  then  I  felt  the  stroke  of  the  crowned  man. 
As  best  I  might  I  got  back  from  the  edge  of  the 
precipice.  I  drew  myself  away  from  her  hands  and 
her  face. 

"Dorothea,  Dorothea,  Dorothea!  leave  that! 
That's  not  innocent,  because  it's  not  sincere.  You're 
stooping  low  with  your  mind — tempting  deliber 
ately!  And  I'm  the  leopard — the  slave — the  worm 
yet.  .  .  .  Leave  it!  Let's  at  least  stand  upright!" 

She  drew  a  long  breath.   "Well ...  I  wondered — " 

"Stop  wondering!  It's  all  there,  in  my  blood  as 
it  is  in  yours.  I  could,  as  you  could.  Almost  half 
of  me  plays  the  siren  to  just  more  than  half  that's 
just  wise  enough  to  use  every  thong  it  can  find  to 
keep  it  to  the  mast — " 

"Well,  you  will  please  to  understand  that  it  was 
the  mind — just  wanting  to  see — " 

"I  understand.  Now  I  want  to  tell  you.  ...  I 
think  that  we  roved  together  a  lot  in  the  past,  you 
and  I.  ...  Suppose  you,  also,  try  to  stop  that  lorelei 
work  of  taking  oneself  in  one's  own  net.  Every  fish 
you  take — lovers,  pride,  domination,  cruelty,  in 
dolence,  self-love,  and  all  the  rest  of  it — pulls  you 
deeper  yet  into  the  ancient  sea.  I  know,  for  not  so 
long  ago  and  not  so  far  away  I  have  been  there — 
am  there  quite  sufficiently  still!  Throw  the  net 

191 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

away,  stop  the  old  singing,  and  see  if  you  can't  hear 
a  lark  overhead!" 

"You're  preaching!" 

"No,  I'm  not.  I'm  calling  your  attention  to  some 
facts  in  nature." 

She  began  to  walk  again.  "I  don't  see  that  our 
old,  long  past  was  so  very  wrong." 

"I  don't  in  the  least  say  that.  I  won't  say  a  word 
against  the  ancient  sea.  When  we  were  in  it,  if 
we  were  sincere,  it  was  all  that  we  could  do.  It 
had  its  own  powers,  beauties,  and  truths.  But  the 
winged  thing  mustn't  return  to  the  finned  thing." 

She  looked  at  me  over  the  violets  that  she  had 
pinned  at  her  throat.  "After  Grandfather  Forth's 
death  I  heard  a  man  call  him  a  mystic.  ...  I  suppose 
that's  you,  too,  Michael?" 

But  the  word  didn't  well  describe  how  I  felt  as 
to  the  out-of-doors  around  our  houses  of  ancient 
habit.  She  began  to  talk  of  things  away  from  this 
hour.  We  climbed  the  hill  and  crossed  the  May 
grass  to  the  porch. 

At  no  other  time  while  I  was  at  Restwell  did  we 
recall  the  one  to  the  other  this  morning.  She  went 
her  way  and  I  went  mine.  But  I  felt  her  sultry 
beauty  and  the  ancient  sea  call.  I  piled  images 
against  it,  and  drew  at  last  strength  from  that 
dimension  that  fronts  the  east.  And  yet  I  knew, 
and  that  without  shame,  that  life  of  old  sense  through 
which  certainly,  in  a  million,  million  shapes,  I  had 
gone.  It  streamed  and  weltered,  fought  and  gloried, 
thrilled  through  its  coils  of  murky  splendor,  survived 
and  somehow  surpassed  itself,  and  rose.  Dorothea 
was  me  in  that  eon  and  I  was  Dorothea.  Miriam 

192 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

and  I  and  Dorothea  had  all  been  together.  If  two 
were  out,  were  partly  out,  another  would  follow. 

The  days  went  by  at  Rest  well.  Daddy  Guinea 
was  dead,  but  Mammy,  Aunt  Esther,  Mandy's  Jim, 
and  others  still  lived  there.  Ahasuerus  made  him 
self  happy.  Restwell  was  oiled,  smoothly  running, 
with  money  as  never  had  I  remembered  it.  It  was 
not  that  the  Warringers  were  hugely  wealthy;  they 
were  not.  Royal  would  pass  into  that  category, 
but  that  time  was  not  yet.  But  they  had  means 
beside  which  my  grandfather's  and  my  mother's 
old  struggles  seemed  piteous  enough. 

Aunt  Sarah  had  not  oldened.  Her  pale,  smooth 
skin  kept  its  firmness,  her  hair  its  brown  luster, 
her  eyes  their  not  young  nor  old,  still,  immortal 
look.  I  sat  with  her  in  her  room,  always  so  clean, 
hushed,  unlit tered,  or  on  the  upper  porch  without 
her  windows  where  in  summer  she  kept  her  many 
plants  that  would  bloom  in  winter.  And  three  times 
we  were  together  in  the  graveyard. 

"I  understand  better  than  I  did,"  I  said,  "what 
you  meant  when  you  said  that  they  are  within  us." 

"You'll  grow  to  understand  it  better  yet.  .  .  . 
It's  a  vast  world,  Michael,  that  'within  us'!" 

"I  am  fast  coming  to  see  that." 

"So  vast  that  all  things  are  there." 

"I  begin  to  see  it." 

"I  have  not  the  energy  strongly  to  move  and 
make  move  within  it.  It  goes  as  a  kind  of  still 
dream.  The  faintest  dawn  is  on  the  waters  and 
they  lie  still  beneath  it.  But  I  do  not  grieve  any 
longer,  nor  am  I  anxious.  It  is  a  gain  when  women 
do  not  grieve,  nor  are  anxious." 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

The  days  swam  on.  I  went  to  Whitechurch.  I 
climbed  the  academy  hill  and  listened  to  Doctor 
Young  in  his  study.  He  reminded  me  of  some 
castle  keep,  narrow  and  darkened,  but  firm,  built 
with  a  fierce  honesty  of  purpose,  with  good  stone. 
A  life  he  fought  was  rising  around  his  hold — outer 
walls  were  crumbling  now  under  strange  shafts  and 
rays — but  still  stood  the  keep  with  fierce  constancy. 
I  asked  him  about  Gamaliel.  His  face  twitched. 
"I  have  not  seen  him  for  three  years.  I  hear  that 
he  has  put  himself  through  some  sort  of  scientific 
school.  I  suppose  that  he  will  go  over,  body  and 
soul,  to  science."  The  timbre  of  the  fortress  voice 
carried,  "Oh,  thou  deep  traitor  to  me — thou,  my 
son,  who  grew  from  me!'*  I  felt  the  drawbridge 
go  up.  ... 

The  days  and  nights  went  by.  In  middle  May  I 
said  good-by  to  Restwell;  as  it  proved,  for  three 
years. 

194 


CHAPTER  XXI 

/CATHERINE  and  Lewis  were  away — Lewis  at 
v^  the  university,  Catherine  at  Elton  School.  John 
met  me  in  town  and  drove  out  in  the  phaeton.  John 
and  Amy  Page  would  soon  marry;  he  beamed  on 
me  with  a  full-orbed  serenity.  He  was  always  serene, 
big,  quiet,  humorous,  fond  of  children  and  all  ani 
mals.  He  had  interior  mass.  In  my  own  fashion  I 
considered  most  people  by  this.  Mrs.  Sayre  had  it. 
Maxwell  had  it — interior  mass  with  a  dry,  clear 
desert  sweep  and  light.  Gamaliel  had  it,  with  a 
keen,  north-temperate  clime.  My  mother  had  pos 
sessed  it,  and  to  a  somewrhat  lesser  degree  my 
grandfather.  Aunt  Sarah,  too,  but  with  her  it  was 
moonlighted.  Major  Dallas  and  Aunt  Kate  did  not 
lack  it.  Madam  Black  had  great  mass.  Others 
whom  I  knew  possessed  it,  some  more,  some  less. 
Miriam  and  I,  wherever  we  were  ranked,  were 
twinned.  .  .  . 

Flowerfield  shone  before  us.  "Miriam  comes  to 
morrow."  John  had  a  fondness  for  reminiscence. 
Each  time  he  brought  richer  appreciation  of  the 
"isness"  of  what  has  been.  "I  was  thinking  as  I 
came  along  of  our  old  days  in  the  barn — and  nutting 
— and  all  over!  Weren't  we — aren't  we — happy?" 

The  house  greeted  me.  I  seemed  to  merge  into  it, 
it  into  me.  That  night  I  had  my  talk  with  Uncle 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

John  and  Aunt  Kate.  Africa,  and  away  assuredly 
for  several  years,  and  dangers  to  life  and  limb  as 
great  as  if  I  were  going  to  war — my  profession  and 
the  possibilities  of  advance  here  at  home  in  abey 
ance — Miriam  and  a  long  engagement.  ...  It  was  all 
true,  and  yet  related  to  a  line  of  superseded  truths, 
part  of  a  truth  that  seemed  to  me  to  be  dimming 
before  truth  in  swifter,  lighter  planes.  And  Uncle 
John  and  Aunt  Elate,  though  they  tried  to  be  con 
ventionally  prudent,  careful,  anxious,  were  them 
selves  away  from  the  old  line. 

What  I  wished  of  widened  experience  that  was 
now  to  me  as  food — what  I  dimly  felt  of  powers  that 
might  not,  but  yet  might  at  last  lead  me  from  the 
physical  into  other  types  of  engineering — what  I 
could  get  into  words  of  that  road  wherever  we  went 
between  Miriam  and  me,  and  of  what  I  knew  to  be 
her  deep  consent  to  my  going — of  all  this  I  managed 
to  give  to  Uncle  John  and  Aunt  Kate  enough  to  turn 
doubt  into  some  fullness  of  assent.  We  sat  around  a 
lightwood  fire — John,  too,  was  there — and  it  chanced 
to  be  in  the  dear  old  school-room.  We  talked  of 
Miriam.  Her  training  was  done;  she  had  taken  an 
assistant  superintendent's  place  in  a  small,  just- 
established  hospital.  Her  father  had  been  on  to 
Baltimore.  "She's  loved  and  trusted — she's  a  fine 
child!"  Her  mother  made  a  little,  murmuring  sound. 
"Miriam.  .  .  ." 

She  came  next  day.  I  knew  that  they  watched  us 
together  and  were  satisfied.  John  said,  "You  two 
lay  in  fairy  cradles!" 

The  spring  was  around  and  through  Miriam  and 
me — a  magical  spring. 

196 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

She  stood  just  on  the  near  side  of  tall,  rightly 
slender,  with  a  gipsy,  free,  lithe  vigor.  She  had  a 
wonderful  brow,  deep  eyes  that  said  the  happiest 
things,  a  short,  well-cut  nose,  a  mouth  generously 
wide  and  expressive.  Her  skin  had  delicate  wine 
hues,  faintest  browns.  Her  hair  was  thick  and  dark 
brown  with  beautiful  tendrils.  No  one  with  a  poor 
nature  could  have  owned  her  speaking  voice.  Her 
hands  were  long,  strong,  and  fine.  Watching  them, 
one  felt  the  movements  they  had  made,  the  things 
they  had  modeled,  the  growth  of  ages,  the  fine, 
perpetual  change  from  far-sunken  tentatives,  through 
all  apprenticeships,  all  artisanries,  crafts,  to  artist's 
knowledge. 

We  went  here,  we  went  there,  we  went  to  Wake- 
robin  Hill.  We  stretched  ourselves  upon  the  good 
brown  earth,  we  smelled  the  pine  and  hemlock. 
We  laughed — we  were  so  glad;  we  understood  in 
such  full  draughts  .  .  .  though  we  knew  that  all  the 
rivers  and  fountains  on  earth  could  not  hold  the 
first  spring  cup  of  the  perfected,  the  ultimate  under 
standing.  The  blue  air  floated  within,  without, 
above  our  wood,  the  birds  sang  and  rejoiced  in 
their  wings,  and  we,  too,  sang  and  rejoiced  in  our 
wings. 

She  said,  "Don't  you  know  that  we  really  meet 
— really,  really,  really !  for  all  that  you  may  be  under 
the  earth  in  a  mine  and  I  may  be  walking  a  hospital 
ward?" 

"We  meet  so  really  that  the  preoccupation  is  to 
strengthen,  strengthen,  strengthen  reality." 

"Yes,  I  know.  ...  I  deliberately  try." 

"And  I." 

197 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"Sometimes  there  is  a  beautiful  terror  at  what 
might  come!" 

"I  mean  the  terror  to  lose  itself  in  the  beauty." 

"And  the  goodness — the  beauty  and  the  wisdom." 

"Yes,  just." 

"There  couldn't  be  beauty  unless  there  was  wis 
dom  .  .  .  goodness." 

"The  false  Florimel— and  the  true  Florimel." 

She  laughed.    "I  thought  that  first!" 

"I  always  did  take  the  word  from  you  like  that." 

"And  I  from  you." 

We  smelled  the  rich  and  dark  hemlock,  we  lis 
tened  to  the  birds,  we  sailed  with  the  white  clouds 
across  the  brilliant  blue.  "All  through  earth,  every 
where,  there  are  surely  centers  where  is  beginning 
a  marvelous  knitting  together.  .  .  .  There  is  coming 
to  consciousness  the  planetary  spirit.  .  .  .  For  us  how 
exquisite  that  we  guess  it  together!" 

"Where  will  it  stop?  ...  Oh,  it  will  not  stop!" 

"No." 

She  sighed.  She  put  out  her  hands  to  me.  We  rested 
against  the  hemlock  bank,  our  hands  clasped,  our 
faces  touching.  "There  will  be  a  sweetness,  even  in 
great  light,  in  remembering  night — in  remembering 
when  we  were  little!" 

"We'll  not  lose  that,  either.  We'll  not  lose  any 
thing  that  we  want  to  keep.  We  shall  taste  it  as 
we  never  did,  as  we  never  could  before!" 

We  rested  silent,  and  the  magnificence  of  the 
spring  was  all  around  us. 

We  were  walking  the  next  day  in  the  meadow. 
There  flowed  here  a  small,  clear  stream,  with  pebbly 
margins,  and  small,  overhanging  sycamores  and  wil- 

198 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

lows,  with  mint,  marsh-marigold,  and  violets,  with 
soldier  blackbirds  coming  and  going.  We  had  walked 
in  silence.  It  had  always  been  with  Miriam  and 
me  that  we  did  not  need  to  talk.  We  had  been 
going,  as  it  were,  in  a  brown  study,  a  reverie.  Im 
perceptibly  this  deepened. 

I  do  not  know  in  any  detail  how  it  was.  What 
will  one  day  be  general  powers  are  mysterious  yet, 
fleeting  in  manifestation,  withdrawing  ere  one  can 
say,  "It  lightens!"  Those  who  perceive,  perceive 
imperfectly,  far  and  far  away  imperfectly,  it  is  evi 
dent.  And  they  cannot  well  tell  what  they  perceive. 
They  say  laboriously  one — and  one — and  one — and 
one — and  one — and  so  on,  with  one  and  one.  They 
cannot  say — they  have  not  yet  the  word — then- 
tongue  cannot  say  it  and  none  has  ears  to  hear  it — 
they  cannot  say  TEN  !  And  then  a  certain  number 
begin  to  see  "ten" — to  try  to  say  it — and  their  own 
and  the  tribe's  ancient  vocabulary  is  not  well  fitted. 
And  evidently  there  is  great  variety  upon  which 
the  new  door  opens.  It  is  "Ten" — but  on  that 
plane  may  be  found  a  world  of  speeds  and  powers 
and  goods.  All  sail  from  the  old  world  to  the  new 
world,  and  all  have  worked  their  way,  but  they  sail 
in  divers  crafts  and  land  in  divers  zones.  There  are 
evidently  all  manner  of  adventure,  slight  and  great 
— but  all  get  out  of  space  as  we  knew  it  before  we 
said  "Ten,"  and  out  of  time  as  we  knew  it.  For 
Miriam  and  me  I  will  say  that  we  had  begun,  though 
palely,  faintly,  childishly  enough,  to  realize  the  world 
of  imagination,  of  memory,  and  of  inference.  I  do 
not  suppose  that  there  are  roof,  floor,  or  walls  to 
that  world. 

IQQ 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

There  was  the  meadow  and  the  sliding  stream 
and  the  smell  of  mint.  We  were  moving  in  a  brown 
study,  a  reverie,  aware,  as  profoundly  we  always 
were  aware,  of  each  other,  but  with  all  surface 
spray  and  glancing  subdued — silent,  smooth,  run 
ning  deep.  .  .  .  Our  bodies  came  automatically,  as  it 
were,  to  rest.  There  lay  about  us  stones  warmed  by 
the  sun,  with  green  grass  growing  around  them. 
We  sat  down.  Our  bodies  fell  into  attitudes  of  quiet, 
of  repose,  all  their  myriads  of  living  points  working 
on  in  some  deep  harmony  of  their  own,  the  spirit 
of  the  hive  taking  care  of  that.  .  .  .  But  on  upper 
levels  Miriam  and  I  broke  bounds. 

We  passed  into  an  experience  common  to  both, 
rememberable  by  both  when  we  came  back  to  the 
sunlit  meadow  by  Flowerfield  and  to  what  we  had 
called,  and  called  only,  actuality.  Now  we  never 
again  called  it  the  only  actuality. 

The  bond  that  we  broke  was  that  of  narrowed 
space  and  narrowed  time.  We  came  out  of  prison 
and  we  said,  "Why  should  we  have  stayed  in  that 
one  room?"  In  our  prisons  we  had  learned  our  book. 
We  knew  in  some  wise — in  stronger  wise,  I  must 
think,  than  did  most  of  our  acquaintance — how  to 
imagine  and  remember,  how  to  draw  ends  together, 
and  like  to  like,  how  to  ponder,  brood,  speculate, 
how  at  last  to  desire  and  to  will.  ...  So  one  day, 
suddenly,  things  began  to  be  put  into  practice. 

We  were  away  from  the  Flowerfield  meadow.  We 
left  it  as  sailors  might  leave  ships  at  anchor  while 
they  themselves  went  into  the  strange  port.  .  .  . 
There  came  a  reinforced  sense  of  being,  of  very 
rapid,  unobstructed  motion,  perception  in  sweeps 

200 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

instead  of  in  points.  We  were  at  once  mingled  and 
apart.  We  were  one  larger  self — we  felt,  as  it  were, 
the  film  that  held  us  enveloped.  We  were  one  self, 
and  yet  at  the  moment's  will  moved  Miriam  and 
Michael.  As  we  thought  we  traveled,  as  we  imaged 
or  remembered  we  saw,  we  heard,  we  touched.  The 
concepted  became  the  actually  perceived.  We  were 
in  the  world  of  idea,  grown  vivid,  solid,  real.  We 
were  as  babes  there.  Planes  overlapped,  powers 
were  uneven;  now  we  sank  and  now  we  swam.  But 
all  weakness  given,  yet  had  we  left  the  ship,  yet  were 
we  out  of  the  dark  tower. 

Miriam  and  I  stood  in  a  city — it  was  Washington 
— we  leaned  upon  the  rail  of  the  ironwork  balcony 
of  an  ancient  hotel.  It  was  evening,  coral-lighted. 
The  long  and  broad  shadow  of  a  sycamore  dappled 
all  the  street.  The  air  breathed  warm,  still,  striped 
with  melody  and  with  romance.  We  were  there  as 
we  had  been  and  as  we  had  not  been.  "As  it  was" 
hung  modeled,  colored,  understood  by  the  larger 
now.  Thought  moved,  we  moved.  We  sat  upon  a 
bench  under  trees,  in  moonlight,  before  the  white 
capitol.  .  .  .  This  sufficed  for  moments — new  mo 
ments  of  new  time — of  wonder,  of  the  more  than 
doubled  beating  life  and  interest.  Then  again  that 
movement  unobstructed,  too  swift  for  counting.  .  .  . 
We  were  not  in  Washington,  we  were  beside  heaped 
sand  and  the  waves  of  the  Atlantic.  We  were  girl 
and  boy  by  the  waves,  and  we  were  man  and  woman, 
and  we  were  something  beyond  man  and  woman, 
inclosing,  knowing,  enjoying  much.  .  .  .  We  knew 
vaguely  that  we  were  the  ocean  and  the  sand  and 
the  sky,  just  as  well  as  the  boy  and  girl,  the  man 

201 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

and  woman.  We  knew,  though  hesitatingly,  dimly, 
that  they  were  our  Ideas,  that  we  had  set  a  stage. 
In  and  through  that  heightened  rate  of  vibration, 
with  that  doublement  of  energy,  our  ideas  became 
solid,  three-dimensional. 

In  the  Flowerfield  meadow  a  soldier  blackbird 
flew  to  the  stream  to  drink  and  alighted  at  the  feet 
of  the  two  sitting  there.  Ere  one  could  say  or  think, 
"The  lightning  goes!"  we  were  back.  The  bird  flew 
away  before  beak  had  touched  water.  We  saw  him 
alight  again  a  hundred  feet  away.  We  moved,  we 
passed  hands  over  eyes.  "Michael!" — "Miriam!" 
"What  happened?" 

"We  went  into  the  past  together.  Into  the  time 
dimension  where  we  keep  all  things.  We  went 
together — " 

"The  ocean  sounds  still  in  my  ears!" 
"The  capitol — the  balcony  of  the  hotel — " 
"Yes,  of  course.    The  pink  sky  behind  the  syca 
more.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  strength,  the  abounding  music! 
.  .  .  Now  I  feel  shrunken." 

We  rose — walked.  "Do  you  think  we  can  do  that 
again?  .  .  .  There  is  something  tremendous  coming. 
.  .  .  Oh,  how  could  the  world  ever  think  that  this 
was  all!" 

"We  shall  try  again.    Not  now — " 
"No.    The  door  opened,  then  the  door  shut." 
We  moved  up  the  meadow  in  silence.    The  little 
stream  rippled,   the  willows  stirred  in  the  spring 
breeze,   the  blackbirds  chattered.     Far  off,   cocks 
were  crowing,  a  dog  barking.    We  smelled  the  per 
fume  of  flowers,  of  young  leaves.     She  said:    "All 
this  is  vivid — but  that  memory  is  as  present  as  is 

202 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

this  meadow!  There,  in  effect,  is  the  sea,  there  the 
capitol,  the  balcony — " 

"That  is  because  the  experience  was  so  strong! 
The  memory  is  in  proportion.  We  doubled  desire, 
pooled  energy.  Now  the  very  memory  has  what 
until  just  now  we  called  'reality/  And  besides 
that — "  I  looked  around  me.  "Miriam!  isn't  the 
day  deeper,  more  vivid,  more  resounding?" 

She  stopped  short.  "Yes!  Oh,  we  keep  something 
of  the  strength  and  the  glory!  We  made  a  strange 
step — and  it  counts  all  around.  .  .  .  And  oh,  it  all 
feels  so  blessedly  natural!" 

"Miriam!  a  part  of  the  world  is  passing  beyond 
old  powers  into  new.  We  are  somehow  in  the  ranks 
of  that  expeditionary  force.  I  don't  know  just  where 
— away  at  the  end,  perhaps — but  there,  there  to 
gether  !  Miriam-Michael — Michael-Miriam !  What 
ever  is  coming,  there's  that  bliss!" 

"Yes,  bliss!"  She  paused,  she  looked  at  the  land 
and  the  sky,  and  then  we  gazed  into  each  other's 
eyes.  "Everything  deepens — "  Suddenly  we  put 
arms  around  each  other,  strained  together,  kissed. 
"Oh,  Love—  Oh,  Love!" 


203 


CHAPTER  XXII 

EARLY  in  June  Ahasuerus  and  I  joined  Maxwell 
in  New  York.  In  a  few  hours  we  sailed  for 
Liverpool,  made  the  voyage  in  ten  days,  and  were 
presently  in  London.  Here  I  lodged  with  Maxwell. 
He  strode  off  to  find  his  chiefs,  while  Ahasuerus  and 
I  mounted  to  the  top  of  an  omnibus  and  went  to 
see  what  we  could  of  this  world-city.  The  next  day 
Maxwell  carried  me  with  him  to  report  to  the  two 
men  heading  the  expedition. 

The  first  of  these  was  Sir  Charles  Grantham,  who 
had  served  in  India,  who  knew  Egypt,  and  had  shot 
and  adventured  in  Abyssinia,  Somaliland,  and 
Uganda,  and  had  had  some  acquaintance  with 
Speke  and  Burton  and  with  Baker.  He  was  a 
medium-sized,  middle-aged,  stocky  man  of  little 
speech  and  a  steady  eye,  with  a  mouth  shutting 
on  what  he  said  like  a  trap,  with  broad,  full  temples 
and  a  finely  stubborn  chin.  This  was  Maxwell's 
ancient  friend  and  some  kind  of  remote  kinsman. 
They  had,  I  think,  a  common  great-grandmother. 
The  other  head,  Mr.  Hugh  Llewellyn,  had  been 
twice  in  Equatorial  Africa.  He  was  a  man  of  fifty, 
lean,  of  an  Arab  brown,  with  a  black  and  vivid  eye, 
a  cool,  restrained,  enduring  enthusiasm.  Behind 
him  doubtless  were  Welsh  chiefs  and  Welsh  bards. 

204 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

With  all  the  glamour  of  a  kind  of  Glendower,  he  had 
abundant  practical  strength,  could  appraise  skil 
fully,  seize  wisely,  hold  tenaciously.  Ethnology 
was  his  passion.  He  served  his  science  like  a  knight 
and  lover.  Maxwell  presented  me  to  these  two. 
They  talked  and  questioned  me.  They  had  cham 
bers  together,  somewhere  above  a  roaring  street. 

The  next  day  I  met  John  Sydney,  the  physician 
of  the  expedition.  Before  long  I  knew  also  Philip 
Grantham,  the  young  half-brother  of  Sir  Charles, 
and  Carthew  Roberts,  a  general  utility,  purely  ad 
venturous  spirit  with  an  invaluable  knack  of  seeing 
the  joke  in  the  hardest  places.  Somewhat  later  I 
became  acquainted  with  Mannheim,  the  naturalist. 
We  were,  in  all,  eight  white  men.  Twice  we  dined 
with  Sir  Charles  and  Mr.  Llewellyn — to  get  the  hang 
of  one  another,  said  our  hosts.  We  met,  too,  various 
backers  of  the  expedition,  Royal  Geographic  men, 
men  of  scientific  societies,  and  others.  Sir  Charles's 
was  largely  the  money,  but  to  some  extent  there 
was  help  from  these  bodies.  Preparations  of  sorts 
were  still  making.  Sir  Charles  seized  Maxwell,  but 
the  latter  released  me.  "You've  got  two  weeks. 
Go  where  you  want  to  and  report  here  on  the 
first."  I  left  Ahasuerus  with  a  West  Indian  man  of 
color  whom  we  found  employed  in  the  small  hotel 
where  we  stopped,  and  I  myself  went  far  and  wide 
in  that  holiday.  I  went  for  two  or  three  days  to 
Edinburgh,  thinking  of  my  grandfather,  and  of  how 
he  had  talked  of  Scotland  as  though  he  saw  it, 
when  his  great-grandfather  had  been  the  last,  in 
his  direct  line,  to  see  it.  Scotland — England — 
glowed  fair  to  me  that  summer. 

205 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

It  was  at  York  that  there  befell  me  a  piece  of 
reality — subjective,  if  you  please,  but  of  such 
strength  that  the  subjective  forced,  at  least  for 
itself  and  to  itself,  the  outer,  the  objective  covering. 

I  had  walked  about  the  town  and  upon  the  old 
wall,  and  I  had  spent  an  hour  in  the  cathedral.  I 
went  to  my  inn  and  sat  down  to  write  to  Miriam. 
I  told  her  of  the  day — the  minster — the  streets — 
the  walls.  The  page  was  half  covered.  .  .  . 

The  old  life  of  this  place  and  of  many  another 
such  place  beat  in  me  strongly.  The  rhythm  grew 
marked,  powerful — a  great  pendulum — a  great 
piston-rod — a  mill  turning — a  dusky,  stilly  moving 
fervor,  wide  under  the  arched  sky,  beginning  to  emit 
sparks.  I  put  down  the  pen,  and  sat  motionless, 
aiding  the  widening  and  deepening.  Sometimes  I 
could  do  this  to  an  extraordinary  extent.  There  was 
nothing  supernatural  about  it.  How  can  there  be 
anything  supernatural?  All  that  can  be  said  is  that 
there  is  much  of  the  natural  that  is  not  yet  per 
ceived  or  lived  by  us,  and  that  certain  energy- 
complexes  know  a  little  more  of  the  natural  than  do 
others.  Take  a  thinker,  take  an  artist — let  him 
somehow  find  out  how  to  prepare,  concentrate,  in 
tensify,  in  a  high  degree — take  memory,  imagina 
tion,  knowledge,  power  of  inference,  power  of  syn 
thesis — make  all  more  mighty  by  ten,  twenty,  fifty, 
a  hundred  per  cent. — and  that  complex  will  know 
more  of  reality  than  it  did.  If  all  is  within  the  mind 
then  the  athlete  mind,  in  its  periods  of  highest, 
skilfullest' exercise,  will  meet  its  own  phenomena  in 
a  kinglier  garb.  Sensation  and  emotion  may  find 
themselves  oceanic.  But  where  is  the  unnaturalness  ? 

206 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Now  here — so  long  as  the  control  increases  with  the 
rest. 

I  went  consciously,  with  volition,  in  and  in.  And 
there  I  met  a  self  that  was  larger  than  the  travel 
ing,  penetrative  edge  usually  called  myself.  I  was 
Michael  Forth,  sitting  at  the  inn  table,  but  there 
was  in  presence — I  of  it,  and  it  of  me — a  far  larger, 
permeative,  recollecting,  moving  power.  There  were 
the  background  and  the  thickness  of  things.  Then 
out  of  the  generalness,  the  universality,  one  sector 
struck  into  light.  It  was  as  if  a  Titan  mind  did  as 
does  the  mind  of  the  average  man — remembered  a 
past  strain  of  things. 

The  inn  was  gone,  the  table,  Michael  Forth  sit 
ting  there.  Town  and  country  held,  but  they  were 
changed.  The  minster  rose,  but  smaller;  the  walls 
were  there,  but  warded.  There  spread  over  river 
flats,  over  a  shaggy  forest,  and  over  a  wold,  red  light 
from  a  red  and  sinking  sun,  red  and  great.  Here  the 
river  ran  pale  and  gleaming  like  vellum  held  before 
a  candle,  and  here  it  ran  red  like  missal  paint.  Far 
and  near  and  in  and  out  made  little  difference  when 
the  Titan  was  remembering.  Black  boats  crept 
over  the  sea;  black  boats  rode  in  the  river's  mouth 
— many  of  them.  The  rowers  and  those  who  rowed 
not  left  them.  We  were  Northmen  with  shields 
and  spears  and  knives.  .  .  .  Wold  and  forest,  but  also 
grain-fields,  meadows  with  kine  feeding,  rough  roads, 
timber  homesteads  with  ruder,  smaller  houses  clus 
tering  around,  with  fence  and  ditch.  Taken  far  and 
wide,  many  of  these  might  be  named ;  also  there  were 
larger  clusters,  hamlets,  villages.  And  in  all  men 
were  arming.  We  were  mostly  tall  men,  fair,  strong. 

207 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

The  wold  cut  the  sun  in  the  middle,  then  the  wold 
ate  the  sun.    Dark! 

We  poured  from  homestead,  hamlet,  village,  and 
we  joined  the  Northmen.  (They  were  common  to 
me,  in  me;  I  was  them  all.)  We  of  the  boats,  we  of 
the  land,  Saxon-English  and  Danes,  we  moved  like 
the  rivers  of  spring,  bent  on  cleansing  York. 

We  were  asleep  in  York — we,  Northmen  also,  by 
way  of  Normandy.  Many  and  many  we  were 
asleep,  in  the  castle,  in  stone  houses  that  we  held. 
We  slept  also,  citizens  of  York,  Saxon-English  men 
and  women  and  children,  sleeping,  sleeping,  dream 
ing.  Castle  sentinels  waked,  and  warders  of  the  wall. 
Normans  all  were  these.  Certain  of  the  citizens 
waked,  men  and  women  with  arms  at  hand,  but  hid 
den  yet,  with  beating  hearts,  with  whispering  speech. 

My  life — my  life  and  Miriam's  life — poured  along 
roads  with  the  oncoming,  watched  with  the  watch 
ing,  slept  with  the  sleeping.  .  .  .  Knowledge  did  not 
descend  to  detail;  small,  sharp,  inclosed  events  re 
mained  unentered  upon.  But  there  was  massive, 
beating  perception,  long,  deep,  and  wide — percep 
tion  and  emotion. 

This  increased  until  there  grew  roar  and  surge  of 
it.  Michael  Forth  had  not  known  that  brain  and 
heart  could  answer  to  such  reverberations. 

Men  of  the  black  boats,  Danes — English  atheling 
and  freeling  and  last — we  reached  the  walls  of  York. 
English  within  we  opened  a  gate.  Norman  within 
we  shouted,  "Arouse!'*  and  started  wildered  from 
sleep.  Attackers  and  attacked,  we  locked  and 
fought.  We  fiercely  locked,  we  fiercely  fought. 
Self  murderously  fought  self. 

208 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Wrath  and  pain  and  woe,  and  all  titanic,  for  it 
was  one  body!  There  was  one  body  there,  one  ap 
prehension,  one  confused,  fierce  mind,  one  volume 
of  murky  and  terrible  passion  struck  through  here 
and  there  with  clean  fierce  light.  There  was  hideous 
fear,  anger,  woe,  the  mouth  brass,  the  ear  discord, 
the  touch  pain.  All  of  us  together!  All  of  us,  in 
no  wise  separate,  tearing  at  our  own  flesh,  own 
^o,nds  at  own  throats.  .  .  . 

To  that  joined,  enlarged,  through-and- through 
consciousness  all  this  thousandfold  event  came  as 
would  come  to  the  lesser,  the  minute,  the  atomic 
consciousness  painful,  heavy  thought.  It  brought  a 
pang  of  self -weariness,  lostness,  and  despair.  So 
painful  was  it  that  the  giant  consciousness  must  dis 
miss  it  as  a  man  dismisses  a  negative,  dragging, 
poisoned  mood. 

The  wave  sank — stiller  yet — stiller.  The  sea  lay 
calm. 

The  inn  came  back,  the  room,  the  table,  Michael 
Forth.  ...  I  drew  long  breath,  I  lifted  my  head  from 
my  hands.  Before  me  lay  the  letter  to  Miriam,  and 
the  sentence  where  I  had  put  down  the  pen.  "I 
believe,  and  you  believe,  that  sooner  or  later  we'll 
be  able  to  walk  at  will  in  the  past.  It  is  us — it  is 
our  past — we  own  it." 

I  put  out  my  hand  toward  the  paper,  then  with 
drew  it.  The  sea  was  rising  again.  That  conscious 
ness  that  could  think  and  remember  in  solids  took 
repossession.  The  Michael  Forth  of  me  again 
rested,  head  in  hands. 

There  was  the  outdoors,  wide,  wide!  There  was 
the  indoors — in  the  monastery — stone  passages, 

209 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

stone  cells,  stone  church.  We  were  chanting,  monks 
were  chanting.  Not  only  monastery  in  one  place 
only,  not  only  one  company  of  monks,  but  far  and 
wide,  double  monasteries,  men  and  women,  abbeys, 
priories,  nunneries,  hermit-cells.  That  Awareness 
flickered  through  them  all.  ...  It  was  as  though  that 
greater  consciousness,  fevered  and  harmed  the  mo 
ment  before,  had  turned  in  its  reverie  and  brought 
forward  for  relief  another  long  thought,  a  tran- 
quilizing  element.  The  feeling  now,  though  so 
spacious,  the  composite  feeling  now,  was  artless,  a 
little  melancholy,  a  little  lifted.  ...  It  had  been 
artless  before,  too,  like  a  child's  pain  and  rage 
vastened.  (On  that  plane  how  could  the  brain  of 
the  man  by  the  table  take  more  than  lower,  almost 
infantine  vibrations?)  .  .  .  The  waves  then  were 
calmer,  the  feeling  was  musical,  plaintive.  Within 
it  might  have  been  picked  out  a  thousand  discords, 
but  these  were  covered  by  harmonies,  and  the  whole 
melted  into  this  music.  (I  felt  now  that  there 
had  been  music  in  the  state  before  this  state,  but 
more  turbulent,  heavier,  greatly  alloyed.) 

I  willed  to  contract,  to  find  a  concrete  life  in 
all  these  lives.  ...  I  was  the  monk  Eadwine  in 
his  cell. 

There  was  some  penance  for  some  heretical  word. 
I  lay  face  down,  cross-shaped  upon  the  flags,  had 
lain  there  long,  must  lay  there  long.  Cold  was  the 
cell,  aching  my  body.  I  heard  the  cock  crow  beyond 
the  garden.  I  heard  my  brothers  chanting  in  the 
church  hard  by.  And  still  there  went  round  in  my 
brain  just  that  for  which  I  lay  there.  "What  should 
God  make  souls  out  of  other  than  Himself,  seeing 

210 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

that  He  is  all  ?  Then,  being  of  God,  and  there  being 
no  other  than  God,  the  soul  is  still  God — " 

The  cock  crew,  the  chanting  swelled,  fainted,  died. 
There  were  darkness  and  wind  upon  the  wold. 

Back  I  came  to  Michael  Forth,  sitting  in  the 
York  inn.  I  drew  breath  and  shook  myself.  I 
touched  the  letter  to  Miriam.  I  gathered  round  me 
Flowerfield  and  Rest  well.  Deep  is  life — deep,  deep 
— wide  is  life,  wide  as  from  Sinus  to  Vega — high  is 
life! 

I  rose  and  walked  the  room.  I  laid  aside  the  letter 
till  morning.  I  stood  at  the  window  and  looked  out 
upon  the  minster  and  the  stars  behind  it.  Ere  I 
went  to  bed  I  prayed  to  the  upper  reaches,  to  the 
heart  and  mind  and  spirit  of  that  which  we  surely 
are,  that  Whole,  that  God. 

On  the  day  named  I  reported  to  Maxwell  in 
London.  Presently  we  were  gone  from  England. 

It  was  the  time  of  war  with  the  Mahdi.  Egypt 
and  the  Nile  that  way  had  ceased  for  a  time  to  be 
practicable.  From  Suez,  Red  Sea,  and  Indian  Ocean 
we  passed  to  Zanzibar,  and  here,  in  a  month's  stay, 
we  outfitted  beyond  the  outfitting  in  England. 
When  we  touched  the  coast  of  the  old  continent, 
when  the  in-country  took  us,  we  were  a  party  of 
not  far  from  two  hundred,  counting  many  ebon 
men  and  chocolate-hued  men  and  a  few  pale-brown 
men  and  a  handful  of  white  men.  We  had  pack- 
animals,  mules,  and  donkeys,  and  all  the  parapher 
nalia  of  a  right  scientific  expedition.  At  Zanzibar 
we  had  found  awaiting  us  an  old  African  trader  who 
knew  many  things  and  had  seen  much  since  his 
boyhood  on  the  Cornish  coast,  and  with  him  Fer- 

211 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

raro,  the  Italian  anthropologist.  These  two  joined 
us.  We  had  besides,  at  the  start,  two  missionaries 
from  Mombasa  who  wished  to  go  to  a  daughter 
mission  in  the  hills.  So  we  went  into  Africa,  and 
more  than  two  years  passed  before,  at  the  mouth  of 
Congo,  we  saw  with  rising  hearts  an  English  ship. 


212 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

OICKNESS  and  a  Masai  raid  befell  us  early  in  our 
O  adventure.  The  porters  suffered  from  the  first, 
but  in  the  raid  all  alike.  An  Arab  caravan-man 
was  killed,  four  negroes  were  wounded,  Sir  Charles 
had  a  flesh  wound  from  a  flung  spear,  and  I  a  rifle- 
ball  through  the  left  arm,  breaking  the  bone.  The 
Masai,  finding  us  too  strong,  left  as  suddenly  as 
they  had  come.  We  made  camp,  buried  the  Arab, 
and  stayed  to  heal  the  sick  and  the  hurt  in  a  place 
out  of  a  fairy-book,  so  strange  and  beautiful  it  was. 
With  my  wound  I  had  more  than  a  touch  of  fever. 
Ahasuerus  and  Maxwell  nursed  me  and  John  Sydney 
set  the  bone  and  helped  me  up  and  out.  This  was 
the  end  for  me  of  illness.  I  came  out  of  it  seasoned, 
and  the  rest  of  Africa  gave  me  only  momentary 
hurts,  though  many  an  adventure  when  it  seemed 
that  death  or  maiming  was  nigh. 

We  recovered  the  sick  and  moved  on.  By  degrees 
the  first  novelty,  beautiful,  with  a  dash  of  terror, 
passed.  There  set  in  routine  interest,  routine  toil. 

We  were  not  primarily  an  exploring  expedition. 
Exploration  of  much  of  the  route  taken  had  been 
done  for  us.  But  it  fell  to  us  to  lighten  certain  ob 
scurities  that  overhung  affluents  of  the  two  great 
streams.  Nor  had  our  enterprise  political  color. 

213 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Yet,  where  we  lived  days  or  weeks  with  savage 
tribes,  and  some  of  these  not  at  all  without  glim 
merings  of  things  to  be,  we  gave,  I  suppose,  seed- 
ideas.  At  one  place,  on  high  land,  we  met  a  tribe 
that  was  assuredly  lifting.  It  had  a  king  who  was, 
in  his  way,  an  Alfred.  This  man  learned  more  than 
one  thing  that  would,  in  the  long  run,  serve  him.  .  .  . 
The  expedition's  official  intent  was  to  increase 
knowledge  of  life  in  various  forms,  to  read  the 
rocks,  make  a  great  collection  of  plants,  draw  and 
photograph  wild,  moving  life,  learn  all  we  might  for 
zoology,  anthropology,  ethnology.  We  were  to  put 
down  in  black  and  white  observation,  experience, 
deduction.  We  were  to  bring  back  to  Europe  some 
valuable  journal — journal  made  at  last  of  journals, 
half  a  dozen  contributing. 

Maxwell  was  no  journalist.  He  deputed  it  to 
me,  and  I  kept  our  common  record.  But,  besides 
this,  I  began,  beyond  Victoria  Nyanza,  a  record 
and  comment  of  my  own,  written  after  my  own 
fashion.  In  the  weeks  that  we  waited  where  Congo 
enters  Atlantic,  and  upon  the  England-bound  ship, 
I  put  this  in  order,  and  it  became  Letters  from  Africa. 
The  idea  of  the  African  Dream  came  to  me  under 
Ruwenzori,  but  I  did  not  write  it  for  three  years. 

At  times  this  expedition  tasted  beauty  and  marvel 
to  the  height;  at  times  it  wrestled  with  dangers, 
trials,  and  fears.  At  times  it  met  gross  weariness, 
or  stumbled  in  tunnels  of  anxiety  with  a  feeling  of 
all  Africa  caving  in  upon  it.  Sickness  visited  us, 
and  now  and  again  death. 

Ere  we  were  two  months  upon  our  way  Philip 
Grantham  died  from  some  poisonous  thing. 

214 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

We  felt  grief,  we  felt  awe,  he  had  been  so  bright, 
vigorous,  like  a  Greek  boy.  Sir  Charles  stood,  sat, 
moved,  with  lips  so  pressed  together  that  there  was 
but  one  dark  line.  We  buried  the  shell  out  of  which 
was  gone  the  young  master.  We  raised  a  little  cairn 
over  it,  we  stayed  there  by  it  two  days  and  nights. 
We  marched  on,  Sir  Charles  very  stern-looking,  but 
himself,  with  a  will  to  keep  his  cloud  of  sorrow  in 
his  own  sky. 

That  night  we  made  camp  in  a  sandy  country, 
above  a  trickle  of  water,  with  a  sighing  wind  about 
us,  blowing,  twisting,  the  smoke  from  our  fire.  The 
white  men's  tents  were  pitched  together,  the  Arabs' 
lay  a  little  apart,  the  many  negroes  couched  about  a 
fire  with  their  heads  almost  in  the  embers.  Each 
night  two  white  men  shared  the  watch.  One  slept 
till  the  dark  was  half  gone,  when  his  fellow  waked 
him  and  himself  slept.  The  trader  Robinson  and 
I  parted  this  night  between  us.  He  slept  upon  the 
sand,  gleaming  under  a  half -moon.  I  sat  and  lis 
tened  to  the  wind  and  all  it  talked  about.  The 
moon  traveled  westward,  the  camp  lay  still.  I 
thought  that  in  one  place  I  saw  something  move, 
and  I  went  softly  that  way,  to  find  that  it  was  a 
dwarf  tree  stirring  in  the  wind.  Returning,  as  I 
passed  Sir  Charles's  tent  I  heard  him  groan. 

I  sat  near  the  sleeping  trader,  and  I  looked  toward 
Sir  Charles,  and  I  wished — I  willed — I  tried  to 
help  him. 

If  indeed,  and  I  believed  it,  we  were  members 
one  of  another,  then  he  was  in  me  and  I  in  him. 
And  the  "dead"  youth,  the  invisible  youth — so 
visible  to  the  mind's  eye,  so  penetrated  by  the 

215 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

mind's  touch,  so  felt  for  and  felt  with,  understood, 
warmed  with  liking,  recognized  as  hardly  had  he 
been  before — what  perversity  to  say  that  he  was 
wholly  gone!  He  had  not  gone — he  was  here — in 
that  sea  wherein  all  we  bathed,  in  that  organism 
where  death  and  separateness  faded  out. 

I  sat  upon  the  sand,  above  the  watercourse  be 
neath  the  moon.  I  drew  myself  together,  concenter 
ing,  until  the  spark  came,  until  the  vibration  changed, 
until  there  were  long,  swift  light  and  warmth — no 
forms,  but  fluidity,  energy,  radiance.  I  was  aware 
that  if  I  had  been  strong  enough  to  go  farther,  I 
might  remake  forms — make  them  fairer,  even,  subt 
ler,  less  destructible,  greater.  But  I  was  not  strong 
enough — nothing  like  strong  enough.  I  tried  to 
direct  the  waves  of  assurance,  of  comfort.  I  wished 
him  in  the  dark  tent  to  feel  them.  I  tried  to  soothe 
as  I  would  have  tried  to  soothe  my  own  hurt  hand 
or  arm,  as  I  would  have  tried  to  comfort  and  recover 
myself.  He  was  myself,  his  hurt  my  hurt.  That 
was  the  thing  that  I  believed  with  passion  of  all 
things.  I  tried  to  bring  the  living  youth  alive  in 
him.  If  there  was  continuum,  if  there  was  plenum, 
we  were  all  one.  I  tried  to  make  the  underneath 
flowing  rise  in  him,  bring  the  strongest  comfort.  I 
did  not  go  out  to  him;  he  was  in  myself.  I  found  him 
there;  I  tried  to  make  the  true  blood  flow  in  a 
numbed  part  of  myself — and  that  self  was  not  just 
Michael  Forth.  Michael  Forth  was  but  a  fiber  of 
that  self.  All  the  small  "I's"  of  earth  were  but 
surface  colorations  of  that  Identity. 

The  perception — the  action — if  action  there  were 
— could  not  be  long  sustained.  I  had  tried  from 

216 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

a  fourth  dimension  to  engender  light  and  warmth 
in  one  who  suffered.  I  did  not  know — I  do  not 
know — H  there  was  success — though  I  think  that 
there  was  some  success — filmy  enough,  undoubtedly. 
.  .  .  The  inner  sphere  closed  again  from  view.  The 
moon  shone,  the  wind  sighed,  the  water  murmured. 
It  was  time  to  wake  the  trader. 

We  looked  upon  Victoria  Nyanza  and  headwaters 
of  Nile.  We  lived  for  a  time  beside  a  village  in 
western  Uganda,  clean,  with  banana-groves,  in 
habited  by  a  Bahima  folk,  tall  and  handsome.  We 
were  plentifully  provided  with  objects  of  barter, 
and  they  brought  us  in  return  what  we  needed. 
The  country  was  most  beautiful,  high,  and  healthful. 
Here  were  cattle  and  game  in  herds,  and  many  a 
strange  great  quadruped.  The  native  chiefs  and 
strong  men,  the  women,  the  old  men,  and  the 
children  showed  themselves  friendly.  They  came  by 
the  paths  that  were  everywhere,  a  faint  reticulation 
over  all  the  land,  to  our  camp,  or  we  trod  the  same 
lines  to  the  village.  We  sat  under  the  trees  that 
they  favored.  Llewellyn  and  Ferraro  more  especially 
throve  here.  Llewellyn  had  picture-books  which  he 
showed  the  Bahima;  he  told  them  stories  like  an 
old  Welsh  bard.  He  had  the  gift  of  discrimination. 
I  would  watch  his  bright  eye  dart  and  fix  upon  some 
one  member  of  the  bronze  circle.  "There's  one  who 
can  tell  a  story!  Come  ye  forth,  friend,  there,  and 
unpack  us  tale  or  ballad!"  Two  out  of  three  times 
Llewellyn  succeeded.  The  glories  of  the  Bahima 
jetted  forth.  Meantime  the  Welshman,  in  the 
shadow  of  some  one's  broad  shoulder,  drew  out 
pocket  tablet  and  pencil  and  fell  to  transcribing. 

217 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

He  and  Ferraro  had  great  knowledge  of  peoples  and 
types. 

We  had  in  Africa  strenuous  hours,  and  again 
hours  unoccupied.  In  some  of  the  latter  I  put  my 
self  to  school  to  Llewellyn  and  Ferraro.  I  learned 
much  from  them.  I  heard  corroborated  that  which 
I  had  always  guessed,  the  profound  unity  of  the 
human  family.  And  out  of  the  unity,  that  stem, 
that  vine,  but  never  detached  from  it,  the  multi 
tude  of  branches.  Some  were  wildings  and  some 
garden  and  orchard  and  vineyard  glories — all  in 
proportion,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  they  kept  knowledge 
of  the  fire  and  sap  of  the  whole.  I  learned  much  of 
great  drama  from  the  Welshman  and  the  Italian's 
lore — strange  tales  of  the  divers  leaves  and  buds, 
twigs  and  branches  of  the  ash  Yggdrasil. 

But  it  was  with  Mannheim,  the  naturalist,  that  I 
roamed  farthest.  This  man,  twenty  years  my  elder, 
son  of  a  Jewish  rabbi,  born  in  Hamburg,  raised  in 
London,  had  broken  from  cities  into  gardens,  into 
fields  and  lane  sides,  into  forests.  The  king  who 
knew  alike  the  cedar  and  the  hyssop  of  the  wall 
might  have  found  somewhat  of  himself  in  this  mind. 
Mannheim  had  a  tall,  thin  figure,  soft,  curled  hair 
upon  head  and  chin,  a  hooked  nose,  eyes  now  keen 
and  now  deep,  still,  and  inward-looking.  Sometimes 
for  days  I  went  with  him,  in  and  out  of  Uganda 
forests.  We  took  Ahasuerus  with  us  and  three  or 
four  Bahima  men.  At  times  Mannheim  talked  about 
himself,  his  youth  and  hard  schooling  and  emerging 
purposes.  "Each  one  finds  what  he  seeks,"  said 
Mannheim,  "and  each  one  seeks  what  he  is  able 
to  find." 

218 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"Even  if  he  seek  the  ultimate  circle  and  the 
original  fountain?" 

"Even  that.  But  he  must  give  himself  time.  As 
you  say,  Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day.  .  .  .  Certainly 
the  new  Jerusalem  is  not  built  in  a  day." 

We  sat  beneath  an  acacia  and  looked  at  lilies  in 
an  arm  of  marsh-water.  I  repeated  aloud: 

"Bring  me  my  bow  of  burning  gold, 

Bring  me  my  arrows  of  desire, 
Bring  me  my  spear!  oh,  clouds  unfold, 

Bring  me  my  chariot  of  fire! 
I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 

Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 
Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 

In  England's  green  and  pleasant  land." 

"Who  said  that?" 

"Blake." 

We  sat  silent  for  a  time.  Then  said  Mannheim: 
"The  next  century  is  to  be  the  psychic  century. 
Fin  de  sibcle  they  call  this  piece  of  time;  nineteen 
hundred  will  begin  to  listen  to  a  still,  small  voice." 

"You  mean  that  the  conscious  subjective — and,  cor 
respondingly,  the  objective — will  widen  its  borders?" 

"Yes.  We  shall  begin  to  use  nerve  and  muscle 
that  have  been  forming." 

"What  are  the  first  movements  of  the  new  child?" 

"They  have  great  variety.  Naturally.  At  first 
the  freedom  seems  wholly  interior." 

"Old  self  is  very  gloomy  and  insists  to  larger  self 
that  it  is  mistaken." 

"Yes.  All  kinds  of  idle  fears.  Babes  learning  to 
walk — the  chair  and  mother's  arms  too  far  away!" 

219 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

" Perseverance  and  courage?" 

"Yes.    It's  worth  all  boldness." 

I  looked  at  the  lilies  by  the  reeds.  They  were  very 
fair;  they  trembled  on  the  dark  water;  they  seemed 
lit  from  beneath,  sapphire,  exquisite.  The  reeds 
grew  musical  instruments  and  living  green  and  of 
a  vivid  grace.  It  was  a  flash  of  transfiguration. 
I  knew  these  at  times.  They  came  and  went,  rifts 
of  heaven,  which  then  closed.  I  spoke.  "All  that 
you  call  psychical — double-strengthened  memory, 
imagination  at  white  heat,  intuition  that  is  a  long 
reasoning  process  flashed  together,  response  to  all 
manner  of  stimuli  that  once  were  not  noticed — all 
that  is  by  no  means  all  of  it.  There  is  no  rest  short 
of  the  conscious  Totality!" 

"I  agree,"  said  Mannheim.  "All  that  we  can 
now  conceive,  or  that  we  can  conceive  to-morrow, 
is  conceived  but  to  be  lost  in  greater  light.  All  the 
same,  take  what  we  can  now  do,  and  let  it  bring 
forth  what  wonder  it  will!  It  is  first  steps.  After 
walking  comes  running;  after  running,  flying;  after 
flying  we  may  begin  to  look  toward  that  wide  home 
which  is  omnipresence."  He  sat  silent;  then:  "I 
recognized  you  as  one  of  the  new  children.  There 
are  more  of  these  children  now  than  used  to  be. 
Presently  there  will  be  many — another  race.  Then 
will  the  mass  of  things  begin  to  change." 

One  of  the  men  brought  him  a  strange  flower. 
Mannheim  studied  it,  touching,  handling,  with  the 
naturalist's  respect  and  understanding. 

"I  have  not  seen  one  like  it,"  I  said. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "It  has  fellows,  but  they  are 
rare.  It  is  emerging  from  a  class.  See,  here  and 

220 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

here,  how  it  differs.  .  .  .  But  all  that  it  is  doing  is 
simply  using  its  powers." 

"There's  a  thing,"  I  said,  "in  Dante's  Purgatory 
that  struck  me  sharp  and  quick  when  I  read  it  as 
a  boy.  There's  a  round  of  the  mountain  where  the 
souls  lie  prostrate  with  face  pressed  and  eyes  blinded 
against  rock  and  dust.  They  have  lain  there,  each 
one,  very  long.  'My  soul  hath  cleaved  unto  the  dust.9 
.  .  .  One  of  them  stirs,  rises  upon  hands,  rises  to 
knees,  stands,  and  goes.  The  mountain  thrills  and 
gives  forth  a  cry  of  praise.  Presently  to  Dante  and 
Virgil  appears  the  shade  risen  from  that  rock  like 
Christ  from  the  grave.  They  converse,  and  the 
soul — it  is  one  Statius — tells  them  that  the  moun 
tain  trembles  and  acclaims  when  any  spirit  among 
those  prostrate  ones  who  have  been  covetous  only 
of  earth,  of  metal,  and  of  dust,  and  all  the  dream  and 
cozenage  of  life 

feels  itself 

So  purified,  that  it  may  rise,  or  move 
For  rising.  .  .  . 
Purification,  by  the  will  alone 
Is  proved,  that  free  to  change  society 
Seizes  the  soul  rejoicing  in  her  will.  .  .  . 
Free  wish  for  happier  clime. 

4 'So  Statius.    Then  says  Virgil: 

"Now  I  see  the  net 
That  takes  ye  here;  and  how  the  toils  are  loosed." 

"Yes,"  said  Mannheim.  "I  hold  that  to  be  true 
through  every  order." 

221 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

With  the  flower  still  in  his  hand  we  went  back 
to  camp.  Two  or  three  days  after  this  we  were  out 
at  the  foot  of  a  fairly  high  mountain,  in  a  grove  of 
bamboo.  It  was  a  grove  of  strange  and  rich  sug 
gestion;  fairy  pillars,  fairy  arcades,  smoothness, 
straightness,  jewel-light  and  fine,  sere  whispering. 
After  a  while  we  rested,  lying  on  dry,  clean  earth. 
Outside  the  bamboo  the  men  with  us  sat  under  a 
breadfruit-tree  and  played  some  game  with  bits  of 
bone.  We  saw  them  brokenly,  glintingly,  through 
the  forest  of  bronze-green  jointed  stalks. 

Said  the  naturalist:  "There's  a  kind  of  experi 
menting  that  must  go  on  all  the  time  if  we  are  to 
get  anywhere.  Laboratory  work  like  any  other — 
patient  trials  and  then  patient  trials  again.  If 
once  in  a  hundred  times  there  comes  fluorescence 
— results — we  are  glad  and  praise  the  America 
beyond  the  foam.  .  .  .  You  get  into  wide  past  and 
wide  present  easily?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  travel  within,  as  one  calls  it?  You 
say,  'I  am  in  my  birthplace' — or,  'I  am  in  New 
York' — or  London — or  maybe  Can  ton  or  Calcutta?" 

"Yes." 

"You  use  all  your  knowledge,  sense  of  probabili 
ties,  associative  power,  and  so  forth,  and — sometimes 
palely,  sometimes  less  palely — comprehend,  comprise, 
are  things,  situations,  movements,  events,  and  trains 
of  these?" 

"Yes.  I  go  many  places  within  myself,  and  I 
do  many  things.  But  the  reality  feeling  is  sometimes 
very  weak." 

"The  reality  will  increase.  .  .  .  Let  us  experiment. 

222 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

...  I  have  been  in  America.  I  have  been  to  your 
Niagara  Falls.  Have  you  been  there?" 

"Yes — long  ago." 

"Can  you  recall  the  cataract?  The  rush  of  the 
river  down,  the  thunder,  and  the  upflung  churned 
water—" 

"Yes." 

"Then  recall  it  now  with  all  the  energy  you  can! 
I  will  do  likevvise.  See  if  we  can  meet  and  double 
the  perception.  Sometimes  it  is  possible.  It  is 
worth  the  trying." 

The  bamboo  grove  held  as  as  in  some  magic 
grot,  cool  and  dim,  stately,  whispering.  I  shut 
my  eyes  and  sat  still,  breathing  lightly.  The  inner 
man,  into  whose  hands  all  places  run,  gave  heed  to 
Niagara. 

It  was  here,  the  roar  and  the  intense,  deep,  swift, 
utter  push  of  the  river  over  the  brim!  The  ground 
trembled;  I  knew  again  the  smell  of  the  mass,  the 
chill,  the  thundering  fall,  the  outflung  enormous 
spray.  Niagara!  Very  well,  it  was  here,  and  in  a 
high  degree  of  reality.  I  had  put  my  strength  to 
bringing  it  here.  There  was  the  sense,  as  always 
when  a  thing  like  this  was  done,  of  a  widened  brain, 
of  a  changed  breathing,  of  a  lifted  inner  firmament. 
I  held  Niagara  in  presence.  But  Mannheim?  That 
needed  another  strength.  I  put  forth  energy  of 
recognition.  ...  I  felt  him.  For  one  instant  the  two 
Niagaras  roared  together.  .  .  .  Immense  sound, 
motion,  light — all  significance  doubled — sense  of 
river  where  had  been  brooks,  sense  of  eagle  where 
had  been  eaglets,  sense  of  triumphing,  outfilling 
life,  memory,  knowledge — the  subjective  brain,  the 

223 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

objective  brain,  great  planets  where  had  been  lesser 
ones — everywhere  a  changed  dynamic.  .  .  .  The  in 
stant  sank  and  passed.  There  fell  diminution,  pal 
ing,  slowing.  .  .  .  Here  was  only  the  single  Niagara, 
and  it  seemed  a  wraith  beside  what  had  been.  It 
disappeared.  Two  men  sat  in  Africa  in  a  grove  of 
bamboo. 

Said  Mannheim:  "That  was  a  fleeting  synthesis 
of  two.  Conceive,  will  you,  how  it  will  be  when 
we  are  all  one!" 


224 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WE  were  in  high  country  covered  with  tall  grass, 
sparsely  set  with  trees,  sweeping  to  a  climb 
ing  forest.  There  was  a  ragged,  deep-cut  water 
course,  and  there  were  ant-hills,  little  lower  than 
the  native  huts  and  shaped  much  like  these.  So 
high  were  we  that  there  was  no  great  heat.  We 
breathed  salubriousness.  The  mountains  above  us 
had  snow  upon  their  brows.  This  was  elephant 
country,  and  we  kept  fires  about  our  camp  to  ward 
off  any  trampling  rush  from  the  herds  we  saw, 
chiefly  afar,  but  sometimes  near.  We  had  had  a 
stiff  three  days'  march  through  broken  and  hilly 
country,  thinly  inhabited.  Sir  Charles  called  a 
halt  of  two  days  and  nights. 

Maxwell,  Ferraro,  and  I,  and  with  us  Ahasuerus 
and  two  Bantu  porters,  made  our  way  along  the 
flanks  of  a  hill  a  mile  or  two  from  camp.  We  had 
climbed  a  bold  point  and  had  gazed  thence  over  a 
green  and  tawny,  just  undulating  sea  to  gigantic 
tumbled,  frozen  waves,  white- tipped.  Coming  down, 
we  saw  below  us  at  no  great  distance  a  piece  of  the 
forest  in  agitation,  shaking  and  bending  as  though 
a  bag  of  Eolus  were  opening  just  there  and  nowhere 
else.  " Elephants!"  said  the  Bantus. 

We  came  from  the  hillside  out  upon  the  plain  and 

225 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

began  to  cross  this  toward  the  watercourse.  Trees 
were  still  about  us,  but  not  many.  Between  us  and 
the  camp  stretched  a  ribbon  of  wood  through  which 
we  must  pass.  We  neared  it.  Suddenly  it,  too, 
shook,  and  there  poured  from  it  angry  trumpeting. 
We  stopped  short.  The  Bant  us  began  to  chatter. 
"They  surmise,"  said  Ferraro,  who  was  the  language- 
master  of  the  three,  "that  the  camp  made  some 
elephants  angry,  coming  near  it  perhaps  and  driven 
away  by  shots  and  sight  of  fire.  We  missed  hear 
ing  the  shots  because  the  wind  is  blowing  straight 
from  us  to  the  camp.  But  by  the  same  token  we  had 
best  look  to  ourselves,  for  the  elephants  will  pres 
ently  know  that  we  are  here.  And  they  are  angry. 
Some  one  of  them  is  hurt." 

We  were  as  far  from  the  deeper  forest  that  clothed 
the  hill  as  from  the  ravine  of  the  watercourse,  down 
which  we  might  conceivably  make  our  way  safely 
enough.  The  grass  grew  so  tall  that  in  part  it 
screened  us.  We  began  to  move  quickly  across  the 
plain  to  the  watercourse.  We  had  gone  but  a  little 
way  when  the  note  of  the  trumpeting  changed. 
"They've  got  our  wind,"  said  Maxwell. 

The  edge  of  the  ribbon  of  wood  seemed  to  bulge, 
to  start  forward,  to  shake  out  pieces  of  shadow. 
There  were  ten  or  twelve  of  these  protuberances. 
They  came  away  from  the  ribbon — showed  them 
selves  for  angry  giants  willing  to  charge  us,  over 
take  and  trample  us.  We  were  men,  not  elephants, 
but  we  must  and  did  run.  There  was  a  great  bull  in 
front.  We  reached  the  watercourse,  before  us  a 
precipitous  bank,  down  which  we  might  plunge  with 
some  risk  to  neck  and  limb,  but  which  the  angered 

226 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

herd  and  the  more  than  angered  leader  might  hardly 
attempt.  Ferraro,  Maxwell,  Ahasuerus,  the  Bantus, 
and  myself — all  seemed  there.  Ahasuerus — 

We  were  over  the  rim  when  I  missed  Ahasuerus. 
I  turned  back.  I  saw  him  a  hundred  yards  and 
more  away,  limping,  trying  to  run.  The  eight  or 
ten  cows  and  young  elephants  with  the  great  bull 
had  stopped  in  a  grove  of  slender  trees  to  the  right, 
near  the  hill.  But  the  bull,  with  lifted  trunk,  with 
gleaming  tusks,  was  racing,  trumpeting,  toward  him. 
I  ran.  I  shouted.  I  waved  above  my  head,  above 
the  grass,  a  coat  that  I  carried. 

The  oncoming  elephant  saw  me  and  swerved  from 
Ahasuerus.  I  ran,  drawing  him  farther.  .  .  .  There 
was  little  in  my  mind  but  a  singing  of  old  days  in 
the  corn-field,  Ahasuerus  and  I  working  in  the  hot 
sun,  in  the  same  furrow.  The  corn-field  and  the 
swimming-hole — 

The  voice  of  the  elephant  was  in  my  very  ears.  I 
seemed  to  see  blended  with  my  shadow  the  shadow 
of  his  tusks,  of  the  trunk  curving  toward  me  like 
a  sickle,  of  the  vast,  lifted  leg.  The  report  of  Max 
well's  rifle  blended  with  the  trumpeting. 

The  elephant  received  the  ball,  but  was  not  ap 
parently  severely  hurt.  He  half  wheeled,  missed 
me,  tore  beyond  me,  and  stopped,  bellowing.  Then 
from  the  distant  wood,  in  agitation,  came  a  burst  of 
calling.  The  cows  moving  in  this  direction  now  also 
called.  The  elephant  seemed  for  one  moment  to 
think.  Then  he  swung  his  bulk  about  and  left  us, 
trumpeting  of  his  griefs. 

Ahasuerus,  running  with  the  rest  of  us,  had 
caught  foot  in  some  root,  suffered  a  heavy  fall  and 

227 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

a  sprained  ankle.  Now  we  gathered  him  up  and, 
keeping  to  the  watercourse,  made  our  way  to  camp. 

Ahasuerus  said:  "'Twas  worse  'n  cramp  in  the 
swimmin'-hole !  First,  I  saw  the  horrors  and  noth 
ing  else  to  amount  to  anything.  And  then  I  saw 
Daddy  Guinea,  sitting  somewhere,  smoking  his 
pipe,  and  looking  happy  as  a  June-bug,  and  he  said, 
'Come  erlong,  boy — come  erlong  through!'  I  sho' 
was  glad  to  hear  you  shouting  at  that  elephant!" 

Maxwell,  in  camp  that  night,  supper  eaten  and 
bedtime  come,  leaned  against  a  tree  before  the 
tent.  "Ahasuerus  all  right?" 

"Oh  yes!  Hell  have  to  ride  one  of  the  mules  for 
several  days.  ' 

Maxwell  stood  listening  to  the  night  sounds  in 
the  bush,  beyond  the  smoky  ring  of  our  fires.  "If 
that  fellow  had  trampled  you  into  pulp,  as  for  a 
little  it  certainly  seemed  that  he  would  .  .  .  what 
then?  What  next?" 

"I  didn't  think,"  I  answered;  "but  if  I  had,  I 
should  have  said,  'There  will  still  be  a  "then," 
and  a  "next."'  How  are  you  going  to  stop  there 
being?  The  rush  of  a  bull-elephant — yes,  or  of 
Niagara  —  is  nothing  to  the  impetus  of  you  or 
of  me!" 

Lying  on  my  bed  that  night  the  "you"  and  "me" 
went  more  subtly  together.  Variation  and  Unity. 
Why  did  we  think  "Variation,"  and  then  "Unity," 
and  turn  from  one  to  the  other,  restless,  perplexed, 
still  keeping  succession,  opposition,  parties  to  choose 
between?  But  Variation-and-Unity,  or  Unity-and- 
Variation — the  phrase  one  noun. ...  I  lay  there  one 
power,  an  organism,  and  yet,  God  knows,  I  included 

228 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

variousness.  ...  To  feel  as  and  with  this  camp,  both 
in  its  oneness  and  its  multiplicity — what  was  that 
but  self -cognition  as  a  larger  organism?  This  camp, 
this  Africa,  these  seven  seas  and  five  continents, 
this  earth,  this  solar  system,  this  visible  and  in 
visible  universe.  .  .  .  Ever  a  greater,  more  conscious 
self.  .  .  . 

Magnitude  was  around  me,  power,  an  upper  realm 
of  mind.  But  it  sank  away,  it  vanished,  like  sheet 
lightning.  It  ever  vanished  thus,  and  I  cried  within, 
"O  God!  when  will  the  wings  hold?'* 

But  out  of  the  flash  came  always,  I  knew,  an  angel 
into  one  of  my  many  hells.  Down  there,  under  my 
daily  consciousness,  a  light  in  darkness,  it  continued 
to  work. 

Definitely  now,  in  my  life,  I  was  come  to  the  plane 
where  two  lives,  the  inner  and  the  outer,  are  in  the 
crucible  and  must  melt  together.  Now  the  heat 
and  light  that  were  the  crucible  increased  in  intensity, 
and  now  they  sank  to  scarcely  a  glowing.  The 
crucible  was  immense,  the  lives  within  it  multiform; 
the  process  due  to  extend  itself  over  centuries, 
possibly  through  eons.  Much  was  within  the 
crucible  that  was  obstinate,  ignorant,  selfish,  and 
perverse.  But  I  knew  at  least  that  I  was  in  the 
crucible  .  .  .  also  that  I  was  the  crucible. 

We  went  on  from  this  country.  Here  we  changed 
carriers  save  for  a  few  who  would  still  accompany 
us.  Zanzibar  and  Coast  men,  well  paid,  in  good 
humor,  gave  us  ample  good-bys.  Uganda  men, 
tall  and  strong,  shouldered  rolls  and  cases.  The 
moving  line  stretched  afar  over  rolling  grassland. 
I  thought  of  Indians  afile  long  since,  through  Amer- 

229 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

ican  woods.  These  Uganda  folk,  Hamitic  men, 
placed  beside  the  Indian  might  not  seem  so  very 
different. 

The  mountains  rose  higher.  We  gazed  upon 
purple  giants,  with  helmets,  under  the  equator,  of 
silver.  As  we  marched  the  robes  grew  green,  and 
we  saw  the  shoulders  of  naked  rock,  and  the  whitened 
heads  held  stark  and  high.  Now  we  were  climbing, 
a  moving  line  like  an  ant  army,  upon  the  lower 
reaches  of  the  giant's  robe.  About  us  were  trees  of 
wonder,  and  from  them  monkeys  chattered  at  us. 

At  sunset  the  extended  line  subsided  into  the  root- 
knot  of  camp.  We  slept  in  the  midst  of  a  forest 
much  less  than  half  asleep.  Plateau  that  we  had 
left,  slope  that  we  had  mounted,  we  were  eight 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  High  above  us  yet 
watched  the  snowy  heads. 

The  following  day  we  sought  and  found  a  lofty 
pass  through  which  the  line  might  cross  the  range 
and  begin  the  descent  upon  the  western  side.  Here, 
in  a  hollow  of  fine  Alpine  grass  and  flowering  shrub, 
we  slept,  ten  thousand  feet  above  the  far-distant 
sea.  The  next  day  and  night  camp  rested  here, 
under  charge  of  Robinson,  the  trader,  long  known 
and  well  liked  by  the  Bahima  men.  With  him 
stayed  Carthew  Roberts,  and  likewise  Ahasuerus. 
The  rest  of  us  would  climb  to  the  helmet  that  lifted 
over  the  pass,  to  the  very  helmet  feather. 

So  we  did.  In  the  good,  late  afternoon  light  we 
came  out  below  the  snow,  upon  a  wide  ledge  of  rock, 
from  which  we  might  see  afar  from  north  to  south 
by  way  of  the  west.  The  white  head  above  us,  the 
very  crest,  we  left  for  sunrise.  This  ledge  was  fitted 

230 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

for  the  night.  There  was  not  only  right  surface, 
but  at  the  back  a  sheltered  half -cavern. 

Chancing  to  be  in  advance,  I  came  first  upon  the 
ledge.  I  saw,  with  an  intake  of  the  breath,  the  great 
view.  To  right  and  left  mountain  arms;  below  in 
the  pass  the  fairy  plumes  of  our  camp-fires ;  out  and 
beyond  and  very  far  below,  washed  in  the  gold  of 
the  lowering  sun,  illimitable  forest.  I  stood  and 
looked.  Out  of  a  belt  of  dwarf  growth,  up  the 
difficult  stony  slope  toward  the  ledge,  came  the 
others,  one  by  one.  With  the  sun  behind  me,  I 
watched  their  coming.  Maxwell,  with  his  long 
stride  and  his  dry,  poised  strength,  was  ahead. 
Ferraro,  so  much  smaller,  but  agile  as  a  grass 
hopper,  came  next,  then  Llewellyn,  then  Mannheim, 
then  Sir  Charles,  then  John  Sydney 

As  I  stood  there  Conrad  Conrad  flashed  into 
mind — Conrad  and  the  Peaks  of  Otter  and  the  tawny 
man. 

The  rich,  the  amber  light  bathed  me  standing 
on  the  rock,  and  bathed  them  coming  on.  But  to 
my  senses  there  seemed  something  more  than  warm 
light  from  a  ninety-odd  million  miles  away,  eight 
hundred  thousand  miles  in  diameter,  ball  of  fire. 
There  streamed  from  within  outward  a  happiest 
sense  of  strength  and  lightness.  It  was  as  though 
I  had  caught  a  ray  from  a  supersensible  sun.  My 
frame  felt  vast,  fluid  without  waste,  transparent 
without  colorlessness,  strong  without  weight,  plastic 
to  thought,  a  thrilling,  lucent,  finer  matter.  I  felt 
this  of  the  frame  I  called  mine,  and  I  felt  it  of  those 
companions  in  Africa  coming  toward  me.  It  was 
as  though,  feeling  it  of  the  one  frame,  I  must  feel  it 

231 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

of  the  others,  because  all  were  in  truth  one  frame. 
The  sense  was  of  new  bodies  breaking  from  old 
sheaths,  bodies  fed  with,  built  up  from,  elements 
highly  evolved,  grain  of  upland  fields  ground  in 
golden  mills.  It  came  with  indescribable  breadth 
and  depth,  indescribable  exquisiteness  of  sensation, 
indescribable  delicacy,  richness,  and  strength  of  emo 
tion.  Maxwell,  stepping  now  upon  the  rock,  was 
beautiful  to  me,  and  so  were  Ferraro  and  Mannheim, 
Llewellyn,  Sir  Charles,  John  Sydney,  and  so  were 
the  two  Bahima  men. 

They  mounted  to  the  shelf  of  rock  with  the  farther 
snowy  crest  behind  and  half  Africa,  it  seemed, 
below.  "Ha!"  said  Sir  Charles.  "I  suppose  we  live 
for  high  lights  such  as  these!"  His  grim  face  relaxed. 
There  came  to  him,  and  I  suppose  to  all  of  us,  the 
wave  of  Philip  Grantham's  hand  and  his  infectious 
laughter. 

Below  the  ledge  was  broken  scrub  enough.  We 
gathered  wood  and  made  a  great  fire.  We  had  food 
with  us  and  we  cooked  and  ate  our  supper.  It  tasted 
most  good  there  in  the  winey  air,  by  the  crackling 
flame.  Supper  over,  we  examined  the  half-cave 
behind  us  for  sleeping-quarters  and  we  gathered 
more  wood. 

We  felt  as  yet  no  desire  for  sleep,  and  the  west 
was  magnificent,  while  all  the  land  below  lay  still 
beneath  a  purple  pall.  Llewellyn  broke  into  song. 
The  words  were  Welsh.  "In  praise  of  mountains," 
explained  the  singer.  "Of  mountains  and  the  spirit 
who  couches  among  them!" 

* !  We  sat  about  the  fire  and  fell  to  talking. 
Llewellyn,  usually  rather  silent,  seemed  to  have 

232 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

his  lips  unlocked  by  this  place.  "  There  comes  out 
the  golden  Venus — Venus  Urania!  Mannheim! 
Where  do  you  think  may  be  what  they  call  the  fourth 
dimension?" 

"In  the  subjective.    Within  us." 

"We  must  be  just  being  born  in  that  world," 
said  the  Welshman.  "Earth  and  heaven!  What 
an  objective  we'll  make  ere  we  are  grown!" 

Sir  Charles  spoke.  "Where  do  you  think  are  the 
dead?" 

"Within  us." 

"But  there's  no  real  realization  of  that — any 
more  than  there  is  of  other  things  I  read  about, 
hear  talked  about,  in  this  amazing  world!" 

"Give  Time  time.  You've  just  said  that  it  is 
amazing." 

Llewellyn  began  a  half -spoken,  half-chanted  pro 
cessional  of  thought.  It  may  have  been  partly  an 
improvisation,  partly  a  recitation  from  some  old 
bard.  It  began  about  the  mountains,  and  it  went 
on  about  the  great  drama  and  beauty  of  the  earth. 
He  chanted  of  seas  and  islands  and  continents,  of 
zone  and  clime,  of  the  outstretched  landscape  of 
time,  of  scintillant  currents  of  peoples.  And  all 
came  under  the  mantle  of  an  Individual. 

He  ceased  his  chant.  We  looked  at  the  stars — 
Rigel  and  Canopus  and  Sirius,  Achernar  and  the 
Southern  Cross.  John  Sydney  spoke.  "Universal 
Energy  or  Everlasting  God?  Which  do  you  say, 
Mannheim?" 

"I  say  the  Self  that  I  merge  toward,"  answered 
Mannheim.  "It  is  the  same  with  Universal  Energy 
and  Everlasting  God." 

233 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"And  you,  Michael ?" 

"I  say  the  same." 

We  watched  the  sky.  There  was  splendor,  there 
was  pureness,  there  was  vigor.  Each  one  seemed  to 
feel  the  center  in  the  other,  take  thence  the  point  of 
view.  Therefore  we  had  many  mountain-tops  in  one. 


234 


CHAPTER  XXV 

WE  were  in  the  forests  where  the  water  sank 
and  trickled  toward  Congo,  not  toward  Nile. 
There  rose  about  us  a  fearful,  a  magical  beauty. 

A  path  ran  that  seemed  a  chain  of  roots  and  root 
lets,  kindly  pushed  above  the  soil  by  the  trees  for 
our  use.  So  light  and  yielding  was  this  soil  that  we 
seemed  to  step  upon  black  air  or  black  water  that  did 
not  wet,  but  into  which  there  might  be  sinking.  The 
soil  was  black  vegetal  life  asleep,  thick  memories, 
premonitions  of  life  in  infinite  leaf.  We  came  into 
arcades,  aisles  where  water  ran,  where,  far  up,  so 
far  up,  there  glowed  fillets  of  blue.  Away  from  these 
there  had  never  been  aught  since  the  world  began 
but  a  green  heaven,  a  mighty  emerald  and  jade 
arabesque. 

The  air  hung  humid,  warm,  oppressively  still;  the 
light,  green  light,  rayed  from  a  sun  that  must  be 
far  away  and  small.  Birds  or  the  face  of  a  chim 
panzee  looked  down  or  out  upon  us. 

The  thin,  extended  line  of  burdened  men  wound 
on  slowly,  following  the  naked  guide  ahead.  Foot 
print  fell  in  footprint,  over  the  black,  low-settled 
mist  of  old  life,  so  pregnant,  so  fecund,  so  instant- 
ready  the  moment  the  spark  should  call.  .  .  . 

I  walked  in  a  forest  of  my  own  thought.  I  was 
remembering  that  the  earth  was  alive — that  those 

235 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

whom  we  called  planets — stars — suns  were  persons, 
individuals — that  there  was  communication  between 
them — that  they  made  a  society — that  they  pursued 
an  ideal  unity  and  spoke  of  an  over-self. 

Planetary  consciousness — solar  consciousness — 
universal  consciousness,  universal,  eternal,  inte 
grated  !  I  saw  the  star  ahead,  faint  and  far,  and  be 
tween  were  light-years  as  the  sands  of  the  sea  for 
number,  light-years  and  their  vast  successiveness  of 
event.  The  strange  sweetness  was  that  the  ray  it 
sent  was  a  ray  of  home  and  drew  with  the  cords  of 
home. 

All  feeling,  all  knowing,  all  doing  rang  forth  from 
that.  There  was  the  heart  of  action.  There  was  all 
the  action.  .  .  .  But  what  was  the  action?  How  to 
further  it?  How  definitely  to  let  go  the  little  will, 
let  the  One  Will  pour  through?  How  to  increase  the 
mind's  weak  zephyr  until  the  eternal  cleansing  truth 
blew  free? 

The  path  wound,  though  still  it  went  on.  The 
powdery  earth  that  was  half -life  seemed  hardly  to 
afford  footing,  and  yet  did  give  support.  Strange 
trees,  ferns,  mazy  creepers,  air-plants,  roof  over 
roof,  light  like  the  depths  of  the  sea!  Suddenly, 
smilingly,  there  walked  into  my  mind  child-verses 
learned  at  my  mother's  knee: 

Little  drops  of  water, 

Little  grains  of  sand, 
Make  the  mighty  ocean 

And  the  pleasant  land. 

Still  the  huge  controversy!  Was  that  so — or  the 
mighty  ocean  and  the  pleasant  land  did  they  make 

236 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

the  water  drops,  the  sand  grains?  Or  was  there  no 
true  problem,  and  the  whole  vexed  question  but  a 
lantern -fantasy  to  melt  in  the  flooding  day? 

The  flooding  day — that  was  what  I  wanted. 

The  enormous  forest  slept,  a  sea  of  strange  shapes. 
I  wished  to  know  the  life  that  made  the  shapes 
— drew  limiting  lines  around  its  own  essence  for  its 
own  uses — knew  the  use,  the  purpose,  was  at  itself, 
gathered  its  mind  together  and  knew  itself.  .  .  . 
The  only  path  was  the  inner  path,  the  way  of  the 
ever  more  inclusive,  ever  less  inhibited  "I"  or  "We** 
— just  as  one  chooses  to  call  it.  Now  Michael  Forth 
called  it  "I,"  and  now  he  called  it  "We."  But  never 
did  he  mean  only  that  manacled,  dungeoned  par 
ticle,  born  in  the  year  1862. 

The  forest  halted.  Here  came  and  passed  and 
stayed  a  stream  crossed  by  a  swaying  bridge  of 
woven  lianas.  Upon  the  farther  bank,  in  a  brown 
and  green  space,  appeared  rows  of  smallest,  frailest 
huts  of  cane,  and  a  body  of  Pygmies,  warned  that 
we  were  friendly,  drawn  up  by  their  talk-house  to 
meet  us.  They  struck  their  drums.  Boom !  Boom ! 
Their  fetish-men  advanced,  striving  hard  to  look 
terrible.  And  all  around  stood  the  forest,  the 
rooted,  the  yet  further  manacled. 

We  dwelt  several  months  by  this  stream,  with 
these  Pygmies.  They  were  a  simple,  low-scale  folk, 
away  down,  away  down. 

I  listened  to  the  drum-beat  in  this  village.  I 
watched  the  ritual  of  the  fetish-men.  They  were 
children  in  height,  but  they  wore  head-dresses  that 
they  thought  made  them  towering.  Around  and 
around  they  went  in  a  circle.  ...  It  was  as  though 

237 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

there  was  an  invisible  stake,  an  invisible  rope;  they 
got  to  the  end  of  their  tether  and  went  round  and 
round.  I  thought,  "Break  the  rope,  for  God's  sake, 
and  rise!'* 

One  night,  in  a  half -dream  I  saw  more  than  these 
Pygmies.  I  saw  Africa  and  its  stake  and  rope  and 
weary  circle.  .  .  .  Asia  and  its  circle — Europe  and  its 
circle — America  and  its  circle.  .  .  . 

This  village,  this  forest,  this  stay  with  the  Pygmies, 
came,  with  me,  into  the  column  of  turning-points,  the 
hinge  column. 

I  was  weary  of  inner  debate,  weary  of  turning 
around  my  own  stake  in  my  own  circle.  There 
would  come  upon  me  here,  if  I  stayed  here  forever, 
withered  horror.  ...  I  would  clear  out — trust  to 
rising — but  move  anyhow! 

I  had  had  intimations  of  a  path.  To  treat  syn 
theses  as  phenomena  to  be  realized,  used,  and  grown 
by  just  as  their  component  phenomena  had  been 
realized,  used,  and  grown  by — to  take  Memory  and 
Imagination  as  the  great  Powers  that  they  were— 
to  use  Reason  with  a  wider  swing — to  trust  Intui 
tion — to  cease  saying,  "It  is  not  penetrable,"  or, 
"It  is  afar,"  or,  "It  is  dead,"  or,  "Past  and  Future 
areunenterable,"  or,  "There  is  no  participation  nor 
perception  outside  this  circle." 

The  night  held  dark  and  warm  and  close.  There 
was  something  tolling  in  the  forest.  A  red  light  up- 
sprang  by  the  talk-tree,  and  the  fetish-men  began 
again  their  twisted  dance.  All  the  Pygmies  followed 
with  their  eyes ;  their  bodies  also  moved  in  sympathy. 

At  Landon  once  there  had  been  a  lynching.  I 
had  been  among  those  who  tried  to  stop  it.  But 

238 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

we  had  word  too  late  and  were  there  too  late.  I 
saw  again  the  swinging  body,  the  crew  of  masked 
Pygmies  beneath.  ...  I  thought  of  many  another 
crippled  truth  and  frozen  love.  America  and  its 
weary,  ancient  circle.  .  .  . 

Break,  break  from  ignorance!  Nor  halt  from 
fearing,  "Is  this  a  path?"  Go  the  way  you  can  go, 
and  trust  to  its  widening  and  serving  the  others! 

That  night,  my  body  lying  straight  in  the  tent 
that  I  shared  with  Maxwell,  I  went  away  in  the 
inner  man.  Just  as  much  as  that  inner  man  could 
reap  of  inner  space,  time,  and  form,  he  might  reap. 
Just  as  much  as  he  could  understand  and  share  he 
might  understand  and  share.  There  was  no  barrier 
save  himself. 

It  had  been  an  oppressive  day  in  this  forest  and 
this  Pygmy  town.  The  rains  were  at  hand.  We 
faced  a  considerable  stay  here,  and  the  prospect 
had  some  distaste.  ...  I  went  away.  I  fled  like  the 
eagle  upon  the  breathing  air.  Beneath  me  flowed 
the  sea.  Then  there  was  land  and  mountain-tops. 
.  .  .  But  up  in  the  air — up  and  up! — till  it  thinned, 
till  atmosphere  lay  below  me  as  hydrosphere  and 
lithosphere  lie  under  atmosphere.  The  Sea  of  Air 
— and  I  saw  its  surface  as  from  a  cliff  is  seen  the 
surface  of  the  sea.  It  was  in  waves,  little  and  great, 
and  the  upper  forces  dashed  against  and  through 
it,  and  there  was  a  wild  spray  of  utterest  light. 

Down  in  the  Pygmy  village  arose  some  night  dis 
turbance.  Maxwell  sat  up.  "It's  Ferraro's  watch — " 

I  rose.    "I'll  go  see." 

The  affair  proved  to  be  nothing  more  than  the 
push  of  some  forest  beast  against  the  last  cane 

239 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

hut's  most  diminutive  garden-patch.  I  returned  to 
the  tent.  "It's  all  right." 

Maxwell  lay  back.  "I  was  dreaming  of  Scotland. 
I  smelled  the  moors — had  heather  in  my  hand.  .  .  . 
Michael,  don't  you  think  that  the  whole  round  earth 
may  be  within  us?" 

"I  certainly  do.  Look  in  upon  Scotland  whenever 
you  will!" 

He  turned.  I  knew  that  there  was  a  woman  with 
him  upon  the  moor.  In  sleep  it  mattered  not  at  all 
that  she  was  what  they  called  "dead."  I  divined 
other  planes  where,  too,  it  did  not  matter. 

The  rains  began  in  the  basin  of  the  Congo.  We 
stayed  their  season  out  among  this  Pygmy  people. 

We  made  for  ourselves  indoor  work.  .  .  .  For  one 
thing,  among  others,  while  I  was  in  this  place,  I 
wrote  the  beginning  of  a  story.  I  never  finished  it, 
never  used,  later,  the  fragment.  I  place  it  here  be 
cause  I  was  writing  out  of  my  own  straining  toward 
light,  and  my  own  intuitions  of  certain  of  the  forms 
and  ways  of  that  faint,  faint  dawn  which  was  all 
that  as  yet  I  knew. 

The  fragment  follows  here  as  I  wrote  it  in  the 
huts  of  the  Pygmies,  in  tropical  Africa. 

ESCAPE 

He  had  been  in  prison  ten  years.  The  prison  was  a  fortress 
where  were  kept  offenders  against  the  state.  His  prison  chamber 
was  a  place  of  stone  pillars  and  arches,  long,  but  not  so  wide. 
The  shadows  hung  about  the  ends  of  it.  The  loophole,  grated 
window  was  set  in  the  middle  of  the  outer  wall;  the  lamp  swung 
from  the  middle  pillar.  There  was  a  low  bed  and  a  heavy  chair 
and  table.  The  floor  was  stone  and  sounded  when  he  walked 

240 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

to  and  fro,  unless  he  walked  lightly.  He  walked  much,  to  and 
fro,  and  to  and  fro. 

Morning  and  evening  came"  a  jailer  with  food  and  water,  a 
silent  jailer  with  a  heavy  and  a  weary  air.  He  evoked  pity, 
chained  to  a  monotonous  life.  Few  others  came.  If  any  came 
it  was  at  tremendously  long  intervals.  Nor  were  they  friends 
of  heart  and  mind  who  came. 

Often  enough  it  was  cold  enough  in  the  prison  room  that  in 
part  was  sunk  below  a  river  level.  In  time  of  flood  the  river  might 
be  heard  without.  The  prisoner  had  a  thick  coverlet  for  his  bed, 
and  a  long,  wide  and  warm  cloak.  He  needed  both  when  he 
saw,  high  up,  the  gray  snowflakes  behind  the  window-grating. 
Both  had  been  the  gift  of  a  woman.  He  had  never  seen  the 
woman.  At  long  intervals  some  comfort — a  book  perhaps — 
had  come  from  her,  brought  by  the  jailer.  She  must  have 
influence.  He  knew  that  the  giver  was  a  woman  only  because 
the  jailer  said,  "A  woman  sends  it."  And  again,  "A  woman — 
yes,  the  same  woman — sends  it."  But  now  for  a  long  time,  for 
nearly  two  years,  nothing  had  come  from  her.  The  prisoner 
believed  that  she  was  dead. 

Ten  years.  .  .  . 

He  knew  very  well  his  dungeon  with  pillars  and  arches. 
There  were  the  two  shadowy  ends.  Lying  on  his  bed,  he  gazed 
at  one  and  the  other  until  they  seemed  to  stretch  forth  like  a 
giant  stretching  his  arms.  What  was  at  the  giant's  finger-tips? 
And  what  just  beyond  the  giant's  reach?  When  he  walked  that 
way  it  was  merely  into  dimmer  parts  of  the  fortress  room.  There 
was  the  window  high  in  the  side  wall.  Beyond  it  spread  breadth 
of  the  earth.  But  the  walls  about  the  window  space,  and  the 
bars  across,  and  his  body  passing  to  and  fro  beneath,  were  alike 
material,  and  the  first  held  back  the  second.  The  free  space  of 
the  window  was  smaller  than  his  body.  It  could  not  go  through. 

How  rigid  were  conditions! 

Ten  years.  ...  To  and  fro — to  and  fro.  The  dropping  mo 
ments,  falling  in  a  line.  .  . .  Stalactite  and  stalagmite  meeting — 
the  pillar  of  them. 

When  first  he  came  to  this  place  he  had  been  active  with  plans 
for  release  or  escape.  His  mind  had  moved  swiftly  this  way 
and  that,  searching  iron  keys  for  an  iron  door,  means  to  reach 

241 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

friends  without,  means  to  change  the  views  of  foes  without. 
With  his  hands,  with  a  file  made  from  some  scrap  of  iron,  he 
had  worked  at  the  stone  that  cased  the  window.  In  none  of 
these  things  had  he  succeeded.  In  them  all  like  was  opposed 
by  like,  by  a  more  numerous  and  massive  like.  At  last  he  saw 
that  a  heavy  like  was  opposing  a  less  heavy  like,  and  that  in 
the  nature  of  things,  the  latter  could  not  beat  down  nor  pene 
trate  the  first.  He  desisted  from  these  efforts.  That  had  been 
a  long  time  ago. 

Dull  stagnation  and  despair.  There  had  been  a  frozen  year 
of  that — gray,  icicle-hung  .  .  . 

Out  of  that,  little  by  little,  he  had  reached  a  more  clement 
season.  How  he  came  into  this  he  hardly  knew.  Something  had 
worked  for  him,  underground  or  overhead,  in  his  own  nature.  As 
the  floor  upon  which  he  trod  was  the  roof  of  cellars  and  gave  forth 
low  sound  as  he  walked,  so,  doubtless,  his  own  being  had  stories. 

He  came  to  where  he  could  help  himself,  in  that  story  where 
he  consciously  dwelt — and  so,  doubtless,  helped  all  the  other 
stories.  .  .  . 

Now  he  took  up  again,  though  not  in  the  first  fevered  strain, 
and  with  difference  of  aim  and  method,  the  deliberate,  day-by- 
day  endeavor  to  remove  himself  from  this  prison.  If  what  op 
posed  was  too  numerous  and  too  massive  to-day,  that  might 
not  be  the  case  to-morrow.  He  worked  with  brain  and  hand. 
Necessarily,  it  was  inch  work.  .  .  .  The  opposing  forces  had  an 
air  of  resting  yet  in  their  age-deep  bed.  He  persevered,  but  he 
saw  that  an  angel  must  break  these  prison  bars.  Well  .  .  . 
make  the  angel!  Make  or  awaken — he  cared  not  which,  so  that 
the  winged  being  arose. 

He  was  born  a  thinker  and  artist.  It  was  the  artist  in  him 
that  had  set  him  here.  He  had  laid  hands  upon  a  misshapen 
state,  trying  to  bring  it  into  juster  proportions  and  beauty.  But 
Behemoth  had  elected  to  remain  for  the  present  Behemoth. 
Now  he  was  here  in  prison,  but  he  would  widen  this  from 
above  if  he  could.  Where  there's  a  mill  there's  a  way.  Where 
there's  a  will  there's  a  w$y. 

The  books  were  few  that  he  had  in  his  prison,  but  worth 
while.  He  had  been  allowed  to  bring  a  certain  number  with 

242 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

him  upon  his  coming  here.  That  same  woman  had  sent  more 
who  now  sent  no  more.  So  well  did  he  know  them  now  that  he 
knew  much  in  them  that  was  not  written  down.  He  had  also 
the  much  that  he  had  read  before  coming  here.  Pondering  this 
mass,  traveling  in  mind  to  and  fro  upon  its  surface,  learning 
by  degrees  to  sink  into  its  interior,  to  permeate,  as  it  were,  its 
molecular  structure — he  found  open  to  him,  in  a  sort,  fields  of 
space  and  rivers  of  time.  Emotional  freedoms  likewise,  releases 
of  energy,  desires,  longings,  aspirations,  satisfactions  .  .  .  and 
higher  vineyards,  orchards,  and  wheat-fields  where  the  mind 
strengthened  itself  .  .  .  and  mountain  summits  where  the  sky  of 
spirit  seemed  not  far  away. 

It  was  a  life.  .  .  .  But  yet,  compared  to  life  that  he  longed 
for,  it  was  pallid,  hushed,  slow,  twilight,  a  land  never  to  be 
scorned,  a  real  land,  always  to  be  loved  and  thanked  for  good 
help  for  travelers,  but  yet  a  Stygian  land  compared — 

Compared  to  what?    Traveling  to  what? 

He  had  a  power  of  longing — but  all  was  cut  across  by  a  wall 
of  pearly  mist. . . .  There  must  be  light  there,  for  he  saw  the  wall. 

When  neither  lamp  nor  window  showed  him  the  page  of  his 
book,  or  when  he  lay  awake  upon  his  bed,  he  might  sink  into 
the  sea  of  memory.  That  was  a  dense  element  in  which  he  was 
at  home.  He  could  move  to  and  fro  there  and  take  much  pleas 
ure.  It  was  a  very  ancient,  very  wonderful  sea.  He  became  a 
skilled  navigator,  over  and  through  its  waves  and  currents.  .  .  . 
Mnemosyne!  Her  face  was  fair,  though  turned  always  over 
her  shoulder.  .  .  . 

He  wrapped  memory  about  him  like  a  cloak,  he  sat  beside  it 
like  a  fire.  Motionless  upon  his  bed,  or  in  his  chair  beneath 
the  faded  window,  he  wrought  until  the  dead  lived  again  and  the 
past  put  on  the  present's  crown.  Until  the  dead  almost  lived 
again  and  the  past  almost  put  on  the  present's  crown.  He 
wrought  and  wrought  until  he  opened  blocked-up  paths.  With 
an  infinite  patience  he  matched  ends  and  colors.  .  .  . 

He  began  to  see  his  life  as  he  had  not  seen  it  before.  He 
sorted  past  phenomena  and  put  them  in  sequences.  He  recovered 
moods  and  let  like  flow  into  like,  and  felt  the  river  systems  of 
them  and  the  uninterruptedness  of  their  being.  He  put  together 

243 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

purposes  and  saw  that  always  they  were  threads  of  larger 
purposes. 

What  at  first  he  had  called  memory,  and  had  bathed  in  for 
sensuous  warmth,  repose,  security — for  a  finer,  haunting, 
melancholy  pleasure — for  rhythm  and  returning  chords — passed 
by  stair  and  stair  into  Recollection.  Mnemosyne  came  alive, 
looked  around,  moved.  .  .  .  The  change  was  profound.  It  was 
as  though  a  geisha,  soft,  attractive,  exquisitely  skilled  to  soothe 
material  care,  had  given  way  to  a  goddess — such  a  goddess  as 
a  man  must  be  very  high,  subtle,  and  deep  to  serve! 

Yet  were  all  these  but  inns,  but  shrines,  but  cities  on  the  way 
out.  He  must  not  rest,  lob-lie-by-the-fire,  in  the  inn — he  must 
not  kneel  too  long  before  the  image  in  the  shrine — he  must 
not  even  dwell,  a  busy  citizen,  too  long  in  the  ant-hill  city.  He 
was  addressed  to  real  escape,  with  all  his  being. . . , 

Every  power  of  desire,  will,  knowledge,  judgment!  He 
brooded  like  a  witch  over  her  caldron  upon  the  data  of  science. 
Each  bit  of  knowledge  was  a  chink  in  the  wall.  Get  a  finger 
in,  work  and  work  until  the  hand  slipped  through.  .  .  . 

Power  of  Recollection.  As  a  man  awaked  from  sleep,  as  a 
man  turned  to  saneness  from  delirium,  so  there  might  be  a  still, 
smooth,  deep,  and  entire  return  to  one's  self.  Then  these  walls 
would  be  paper  and  mist. 

Power  of  Imagination.  He  was  alive  to  possibilities  here. 
It  was  his  belief  that  mankind  was  not  using  for  flight  one 
feather  of  that  mighty  wing.  Then  imagine! 

What  was  reality? 

What  were  real  perception,  real  knowledge,  real  will,  real 
action — what  was  recognition  of  reality? 

Could  one  make  reality;  give  it,  as  it  were,  birth  from  desire, 
mind,  and  will? 

Make  or  find  or  recover  reality.  .  .  . 

He  was  a  man  religiously  minded,  for  all  that  nine  out  of 
ten  had  called  him  infidel  or  atheist.  Much  of  that  life  of  his, 
outside  this  prison,  had  been  spent  in  what  seemed  to  the  nine 
destruction  of  ancient  and  venerable  buildings.  .  .  .  The  work, 
too,  within  himself,  of  dilapidation — how  many  years  he  had 

244 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

given  to  that!  To  see  fall  from  his  own  interior  world  this  tower 
and  that  keep — to  take  away  the  clinging  ivy — to  disturb  the 
winged  life  that  had  built  in  every  cranny — what  sad  and  heavy 
and  dogged  work  much  of  it  had  been !  Yet  he  could  do  no  else, 
for  his  own  power  drove  him  on,  and  there  was  a  word  that  rang 
somewhere  above  him.  In  the  light  stood  justification. 

That  anguished  toil  had  passed  into  something  like  building 
and  into  hopeful  joy  in  building — long  ago  it  had  passed. 

Religion!    To  remember  the  god  in  you! 

Every  day  a  day  of  splendor,  but  fairly  shadowy,  almost 
night,  before  the  more  splendid  dawn  it  foresaw.  Ever  the 
hunter  in  the  keen  air  of  his  own  being — ever  the  adventurer 
with  the  wild-grape  scent  from  the  new  land  just  within  his  nos 
tril — ever  the  lover  with  the  beloved  wearing  a  starrier  crown. 

Religion!  Ever  more  comprehensive,  comprehending,  until 
there  was  consciously  but  the  Various  One — who  might  have 
his  own  vast  days  and  dawns.  .  .  . 

He  paced  his  prison,  up  and  down,  across,  around.  He  sat 
in  his  heavy  chair,  motionless,  his  eyes  upon  space.  One  enter 
ing  would  have  thought  him  carved  there,  while  all  the  time, 
within,  was  intensity  of  action.  He  lay  upon  his  bed,  his  arms 
straight  at  his  sides  or  crossed  upon  his  breast,  so  still  that  he 
might  have  been  thought  dead.  Without  the  grated  window 
the  snow  fell,  the  wind  struck  the  fortress  like  a  flail.  The  river 
could  not  be  heard,  for  it  was  covered  with  ice.  His  mind  was 
warm  with  its  own  deep  speed. 

Freedom  .  .  . 

Plato's  World  of  Ideas — not  Plato's  solely,  but  any  man's 
before  him  and  after  him,  who  might  grasp  the  rim  of  that  world 
and  draw  himself  up  into  it — over  the  wall,  through  the  window. 

Pragmatic  Sanction.  .  .  .  What  would  work,  what  you  could 
bring  into  experience.  Truth.  The  Actual.  Make  it  with 
your  magic,  if  you  were  so  fortunate  a  magician. 

The  mind-born.    The  born  of  mind  and  will. 

"If  ye  have  faith  ye  shall  say  unto  this  mountain,  Remove, 
and  it  shall  remove." 

Strength  of  a  larger  self — on  the  road  to  a  larger  yet. 

Freedom — 

Eleven  years.    He  had  been  in  this  fortress  eleven  years. 

245 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

He  lay  on  his  bed  and  the  snow  fell  without  the  window.  He 
lay  wrapped  in  the  cloak  that  the  woman  had  given.  The 
gray  flakes  fell,  he  knew  that  the  wind  was  high.  Then  very 
quietly,  gently,  without  a  jar,  quite  simply,  naturally,  he  him 
self,  his  consciousness,  awoke  outside  his  body. 

It  was  both  without  and  within.  It  was  as  though  he  were 
free  in  the  room,  but  had  left — just  that  much  of  himself — a 
guard  within  the  body.  The  body  lay  as  though  it  were  asleep. 
When,  presently,  he  would  try  experiments,  he  was  immediately 
back  within  it,  awake,  and  looking  at  the  falling  snow  behind  the 
grating.  It  was  as  if  a  very  high  volition  of  itself  raised  or 
lowered  its  rate  of  vibration.  The  lower  rate  laid  it  here  within 
the  thick  body,  the  higher  freed  it.  He  gathered  force  and 
again  passed  out  from  that  citadel.  He  knew  \vhere  he  left  it, 
he  kept  a  fine  line  of  communication  open  between  him  and  that 
guard  left  within.  But  with  the  intensed  rest  of  him  he  was  out 
and  away. 

Not,  indeed,  that  there  was  fullness  here,  either!  Even  with 
so  much  of  blessed  freedom,  he  was  aware  of  stronger  and  vaster 
volitions  to  be  attained,  to  be  exercised.  Compared  to  what 
might  be  here  was  only  a  slow-spinning,  cold,  and  dim  star.  The 
blaze  of  glory  was  yet  above.  But  compared  to  what  had  been 
he  experienced  strength  and  bliss. 

He  passed  out  of  the  fortress,  to  his  consciousness  with 
drawing  from  it  like  a  cloud,  a  vapor,  or  like  light,  like  radiant 
energy,  passing  through  the  pores  of  the  stone,  as  if  the  stone 
were  no  more  than  a  gray  fog-bank.  He  was  aware  of  sentries, 
but  the  sentries  did  not  stop  him.  One  or  two  might  turn  head 
as  he  went  by,  but  they  did  not  call  nor  start  forward  nor 
threaten  with  any  weapon.  He  realized  that  they  did  not  know 
why  they  had  turned. 

He  remembered  an  old  wood,  known  to  him  when  he  was  a 
boy,  and  remembered  it  in  its  summer  dress.  .  .  .  The  wood  was 
about  him,  and  it  was  green  and  the  sun  filtered  in  between  the 
leaves. 

That  fact  of  infinite  gradations  in  vibration,  infinite  intensi 
ties  of  imagery  and  will!  He  was  here  in  the  wood,  and  as 
formless  as  air.  Into  mind  came  the  old  warm  pressure  of  the 
soil,  the  odor  of  sun-washed  pine  and  fern,  the  bird  song  from 

246 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

coverts,  the  boy's  happy  abandon,  down-flung  upon  Mother 
Earth.  ...  He  took  form.  Whether  his  power  slackened  to  that 
or  heightened  to  that  he  was  not  then  clear.  But  he  was  here, 
in  the  fair  shape  of  a  man,  and  he  first  kneeled  and  then  lay 
upon  the  warm  earth,  and  felt  deep  joy. 

Of  old  time,  in  this  wood,  when  he  was  a  boy  and  afterward  in 
manhood,  he  had  been  well  able  to  image  and  remember,  to 
dream  and  picture,  to  disintegrate  and  bring  into  new  com 
binations  experiences  of  his  own  or  of  others,  to  live  in  a  manner 
in  poetry-land,  romance-land,  history-land,  and  in  the  news  of 
the  world  that  came  to  him  hot  from  the  oven.  His  faculty 
in  this  wise  had  been  very  considerable.  And  he  could  share  in 
elemental  life.  Wind  and  water,  earth  and  fire,  were  wide  and 
deep  words  to  him,  holding  wonder.  .  .  .  That  so  straitly  bound, 
that  steel  and  iron,  that  painful  fortress  life,  had  forced,  for  very 
relief's  sake,  his  ancient  power  to  exert  itself  and  grow  in  massive- 
ness  and  edge.  He  recognized  now  that  this  present  enormous 
access  of  strength  was  a  matter  of  altered  degree  rather  than 
kind.  Hastened  by  great  need,  lifted  at  last  by  will  grown 
athlete,  he  had  in  one  effort  overpassed  many  degrees.  He  had 
come  into  superconsciousness,  but  into  what  degree  of  that, 
or  high  or  low,  he  was  not  prepared  to  say.  He  saw  that  his 
degree  bordered  the  old  consciousness,  in  part  blended  with  it. 
He  was  not  arrogantly  minded,  and  he  was  prepared  to  believe 
that  it  was  not,  save  relatively  speaking,  a  high  country.  But 
oh,  beside  the  old,  it  was  high  and  wide  and  blissful! 

This  wood  was  dear  to  him  whether  it  slumbered  or  whether, 
as  now,  it  bent  its  boughs  in  the  summer  wind.  A  little  thing 
that  he  thought  he  had  forgotten  started  solidly  forth  again. 
A  straying  dog  came  by  and  started  a  rabbit-hunt.  The  rabbit 
went  like  a  flash  down  the  forest-scape.  She  and  the  dog  dis 
appeared,  whereupon  a  pheasant  stood  out  from  some  dead 
leaves  and  twigs  upon  the  ground  and  looked  at  him,  lying 
there  motionless,  with  a  knowing  eye,  then,  turning,  whirred 
away.  That  old  time  he  had  laughed,  and  now  he  sat  up, 
arms  about  knees,  and  laughed.  The  dear  old  wood,  the 
rabbit  only  half  scared,  the  knowing  pheasant! 

He  laughed,  then  that  without-wire  spoke  to  him,  and  im 
mediately  he  was  in  the  fortress  chamber,  returning  as  he  had 

247 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

gone  forth,  slipping  again  into  the  body  there,  coalescing  with 
the  guard  he  had  left.  The  key  grated  in  the  door,  the  jailer 
appeared  bearing  evening  food  and  water.  The  prisoner  sat 
up,  rose  from  the  bed,  and  came  to  the  table.  "Good  evening, 
friend!" 

"Good  evening,"  said  the  jailer.  He  set  down  the  dish  and 
jug.  "You  look  very  well,  tall  and  strong,"  he  said.  "I 
wonder!" 

He  stood  and  stared.  "Things  turn  inside  out,"  he  said. 
"It  seems  to  me  that  the  jailed  are  better  off  than  the  turn 
keys." 

"Perhaps  they  are,"  said  the  prisoner.  "I  wish  that  we 
were  well  off  together!  There  must  be  a  way  to  that,  too." 

"Well,  it's  all  a  riddle,"  the  other  made  reply,  and  went 
away.  "Good  night,"  he  said  at  the  door. 

"Good  night— good  night!" 

The  key  turned  and  was  withdrawn.  The  prisoner,  seated 
at  the  table,  ate  sparingly,  drank  water.  Rising,  he  paced 
the  floor,  up  and  down,  up  and  down.  Outside  the  grating 
the  snow  was  falling,  falling,  the  gray  light  fading.  The 
prisoner  lay  down  upon  his  bed,  drew  the  thick  coverlet  over 
him.  Once  or  twice  a  fear  had  knocked  at  his  heart,  hurriedly 
whispering  at  a  keyhole.  "How  do  you  know  that  you  can 
do  that  again?  How  do  you  know  that  it  was  not  a  dream? " 
— Yet  he  knew  that  it  was  not  a  dream,  and  that  he  could 
go  free. 

He  lay  still,  he  gathered  energy,  he  heightened  conscious 
ness,  he  felt  that  fear  dissolve  in  inner  light.  He  left  the  body 
and  the  fortress. 

The  snow.  He  had  watched  it  of  late  and  imaged  the  fall  of 
it,  the  heaped  silver  of  it  far  and  wide.  Now  with  his  freed 
consciousness  he  entered,  as  it  were,  into  the  snow.  He  was 
finding  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  resist  the  taking  of  form. 
There  was  here  a  most  prolonged  memory — whether  to  be  in 
dulged  or  overcome  later  judgment  might  tell.  He  thought  of 
the  veil,  the  continuity,  the  movement  of  falling  snow,  thought  of 
it  with  pleasure.  .  .  . 

The  air  was  thick  with  snow,  drifting,  endless.  He  was 
snowing  over  vast  fields,  steppes,  tablelands  and  mountain 

248 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

systems,  steadily,  quietly,  restfully.  He  needed  this  great 
escape  into  space,  this  subdued  mood,  even,  so  solitary  for  so 
long  had  he  been,  this  solitariness.  With  a  quiet  indifference, 
neither  pleasure  nor  pain,  but  stillness,  he  moved  in  whitening 
flakes.  He  felt  both  the  movement  and  the  rest  where  they 
lay.  He  stretched  himself  in  gleaming  white  over  leagues  of 
land,  and  touched  and  melted  into  leagues  of  ocean.  .  .  .  His 
thought  changed  and  with  it  his  form.  He  left  the  gray,  multi 
tudinous,  crystalline  peacefulness  and  became  the  liquid  sea. 
He  lay  afar  beneath  the  air,  and  here  was  sunlight  and  here 
dark  space  and  the  stars.  The  earth  kept  him  curved  about 
her,  but  he  quivered  also  toward  the  moon  and  followed  her  in 
tides.  But  most,  he  thought,  he  felt  the  sun.  When  he  did  so 
he  rose,  in  part,  from  himself,  he  became  mist  and  vapor,  he 
rode  on  high  as  clouds.  Liquid  again,  he  fell  as  rains,  torrential 
or  fine.  He  sank  upon  the  earth  and  into  the  earth,  he  drew 
from  springs  and  brooks  into  rivers,  and  then  in  a  vein-work  of 
rivers  great  and  small,  and  with  a  lullaby,  lullaby  of  going  home, 
the  mother  calling  and  the  thousand  thousand  children  return 
ing,  bringing  experience,  he  returned  to  himself  and  was  ocean 
with  an  added  hue  and  dream.  Again,  elsewhere,  he  mounted, 
and  that  perpetual  wheel  rolled  on.  With  his  waves  he  struck 
a  thousand  coasts  and  felt  the  rebound;  in  long  rollers  he  ad 
vanced  upon  the  smooth  beaches.  Currents  flowed  in  him, 
rivers  vast  and  small,  and  he  was  their  stream,  their  bed,  their 
shores.  He  felt  whirlpools,  deeps,  and  shallows.  He  lay 
quiet  beneath  the  stars  and  the  sun,  and  where  the  air  thickened 
and  moved  against  him  he  rose  in  a  storm.  In  hills  of  water 
with  far-flung  spray,  he  contended  with  the  air.  Yet  down 
below  was  quiet,  and  elsewhere  he  and  the  air  lay  at  peace 
together.  He  saw  how  universal  was  drama. 

Water.  ...  He  followed  himself  afar.  Cloud  and  sea  and 
stream,  but  he  was  also  present  elsewhere.  He  was  locked  in 
earth  and  mineral,  he  was  held  in  receptacles  of  myriad  shapes 
and  sizes.  He  was  cradled  in  the  plant,  in  the  grass  of  the 
field,  the  reed,  the  rose,  the  oak  and  the  palm,  the  wheat  ear 
and  the  grape.  In  him,  where  he  gathered  together  and  was  the 
sea,  moved  the  fish,  waved  the  sea-growths,  dwelt  the  creat 
ures  of  shell  houses.  But  likewise  he  was  within  and  of  the  fish, 

249 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

the  sea-flowers  and  the  shell  creatures  and  their  houses.  The 
ships  moved  over  his  waves,  but  in  minute  waves  he  moved 
within  the  timber  of  the  ships  and  the  bodies  of  the  sailors. 
He  was  in  the  cup  that  was  raised  to  the  lips,  and  in  the  hand 
that  held  the  cup.  .  .  . 

Beyond  this  orb,  far  in  the  fields  of  space,  he  felt  himself, 
where  about  other  earths  he  stretched  himself  in  other  seas. 

.  .  .  Also,  by  likeness,  in  thought  and  imagination.  Like  a 
great  dawn  he  realized  presence  in  subtler  fields.  As  at  a  bell 
from  a  tower,  or  a  thunderclap,  or  a  lark's  song,  he  was  in  a 
realm  like  and  not  like,  changed  and  yet  similar. 

In  the  old,  more  narrowly  conscious  life,  in  the  old  remember 
ing,  imagining,  conceiving,  in  the  huge  dialectic  that  the  emo 
tions  and  the  mind,  under  some  approval  of  the  ultimate  spirit, 
carried  forever  on,  there  had  been  provided  in  line  and  color 
many  a  mise-en-sc£ne  and  of  characters  a  multitude.  Always 
there  had  been  a  central  self  and  those  portions  of  its  periphery 
to  which  it  gave  provisional  attention.  But  that  peripheral 
world  had  been  without  visible  body  and  self-movement.  In 
dreams,  truly,  there  was  in  some  sort  body  and  self-movement. 
But  from  dreams  was  lacking  something  of  great  value,  present 
in  "waking"  commerce  with  memory  and  imagination  and 
prophecy.  But  however  strong  might  be  these  latter  they  had 
never  been  able  to  march  beyond  a  certain  point.  Now,  that 
center  moving  with  heat  and  light  unknown  before  or  long 
forgotten,  they  marched.  They  became  three-dimensional  and 
vital.  That  middle  power,  fire  of  desire  and  of  will,  rayed  forth 
in  correspondence  with  its  central  strength.  All  that  now  it 
abstracted  from  itself  and  looked  at,  all  that  it  imaged  or  re 
membered,  had  gone  up  a  stage.  It  was  become  what  in  that 
old  world  they  called  reality.  .  .  .  And  still  he  knew  that  he 
but  dimly  divined  himself  across  great  space. 

The  present  Adventure  seemed  new,  yet  in  some  wise  he  fol 
lowed  old  lines,  traceries,  co-ordinations.  He  had  made  them, 
they  were  truly  to  be  used,  scroll  and  arabesque,  illumination 
in  gold  and  silver,  scarlet  and  green  and  blue, border  of  the  great 
text  of  himself  that  he  could  only  stumble  over,  so  little  a  child 
was  he  in  Recollection!  Yet  he  had  garments  that  he  wove  and 
wore,  wealthy,  lovely,  and  in  their  moment  satisfying. 

250 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

He  drew  himself  together  from  the  silver  sea.  A  promon 
tory,  rock  and  sand  and  sere  sea-grass  and  small,  twisted  trees, 
rose  at  hand.  Behind  spread  an  ancient,  lovely  country  wound 
with  tendrils  of  the  sea,  and  green-sloped  mountains  lifted  above 
them.  "Poseidon!"  he  said.  "I  am  Poseidon." 

He  rose,  a  giant  form,  strong,  immortally  young  and  potent, 
fluent  and  various  and  mighty.  He  moved  upon  his  sea  beaches, 
he  stood  upon  the  promontory  and  looked  far  and  wide.  At  no 
great  distance  gleamed  a  small  temple  with  columns  and  a 
sculptured  relief  showing  the  god  of  the  sea  and  the  goddess 
Demeter.  It  glowed  in  light.  .  .  . 

A  giant  woman  came  toward  him.  Majesty  breathed  around 
her,  but  she  was  genial,  too.  .  .  .  He  remembered  the  prisoner  in 
the  fortress,  the  cloak  and  the  books  that  had  been  sent.  In 
stantaneously  he  was  behind  the  barred  window,  within  the  body 
there — the  prisoner  of  state  who  had  been  shut  away  eleven 
years. 

He  sat  up,  he  rose,  he  went  to  the  table,  he  laid  his  hands 
upon  the  books  piled  there.  Among  others  he  touched  a 
small  and  curiously  bound  volume — Dante's  Vita  Nuova.  .  .  . 
He  lifted  a  fold  of  his  cloak  and  pressed  his  brow  and  cheek 
against  it.  This  was  an  accustomed  action.  He  had  felt  that 
so  he  touched  comfort  of  his  kind — pity,  humaneness.  .  .  . 

And  all  the  time  had  she  been  himself?  Was  her  name  Bea 
trice?  By  the  sea  he  had  named  her  Demeter — 

The  written  fragment  went  no  farther,  ended 
there.  .  .  .  The  rains  came  down.  The  Pygmies 
swarmed  or  slept.  They  were  not  ill  folk,  and  each 
in  his  casket  kept  the  spark  of  intelligence.  In  some 
the  spark  had  better  fuel,  in  some  not  so  good. 
But  in  all  it  burned  and  taught  the  fuel  to  draw 
toward  it. 


251 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MANNHEIM  died  in  this  Congo  forest,  among 
these  Pygmies.  At  first  his  sickness  seemed 
but  a  low  fever,  obstinate,  but  not  especially  peril 
ous.  He  lay  in  his  tent  and  refused  to  let  us  trouble 
overmuch  about  him.  "Go  about  your  work.  I 
do  perfectly  well,  lying  here,  with  a  whole  world 
to  roam  in!" 

After  a  time  his  sickness  was  seen  for  the  final  one 
that  it  was.  He  wasted  like  snow  in  March.  When 
he  had  lain  there  a  week  he  himself  said  that  he  was 
going.  John  Sydney  tended  him  well,  but  gave 
Sir  Charles  and  the  rest  of  us  no  false  hopes.  Mann 
heim  himself  never  asked. 

It  seemed  best  that  he  should  have  one  of  us  for 
nurse.  This  grew  into  my  hands,  with  the  others 
ready  to  give  all  needed  relief.  His  mind  was  quite 
clear.  At  times  there*  was  great  weakness  following 
attacks  of  coughing.  But  for  the  most  part  he  did 
not  suffer. 

He  lay  very  quiet  and  easy  to  nurse.  He  liked  to 
hear  talk  of  the  camp  and  daily  happenings,  and 
liked  the  few  minutes'  visits  from  Sir  Charles  and 
the  others.  He  had  humor,  and  he  laughed  at  the 
stories  Carthew  Roberts  brought.  At  other  times, 
when  we  were  alone,  he  lay  most  still,  with  an  in- 

252 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

gathered  look.  Now  and  then,  in  his  stronger  hours, 
he  talked  or  bade  me  talk.  He  was  entirely  serene, 
really  happy.  "Everything  that  is  can  be  perceived 
and  shared,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  matter  of  growing 
desire  and  will.  This  body  is  disintegrating,  but  I 
myself  am  integrating." 

He  could  with  no  adequacy  tell  his  visions  any 
more  than  I  could  tell  mine.  But  now  and  then 
word  or  phrase  lit  up  a  landscape.  And  occasionally 
he  tried  to  describe  what  he  was  perceiving.  I  re 
member  a  velvet -black  night  when  he  could  not 
sleep.  He  slept  little  at  any  time.  "We  are  one 
Person,"  he  said.  "All  these  words — kind  and  kin 
and  what  not !  What  do  they  mean  except  that  just 
somewhere  all  slip  into  one?  All  the  partial  con 
sciousnesses  flash  into  the  whole.  Give  me  water, 
Michael!  I  want  to  tell  you — "  I  gave  him  to 
drink.  He  went  on.  "I  saw  just  now,  in  picture, 
a  little  child — a  babe — sitting  upon  its  bed  and  bent 
upon  observing  and  handling  its  foot.  I  saw  that  it 
believed  that  its  foot  was  a  separate  thing,  and  that 
it  had  not  yet  said  of  each  and  all  its  members,  'That 
is  me — I  am  that.'  But  it  was  beginning  to  suspect 
and  to  experiment.  It  was  a  determined  child, 
and  it  made  me  laugh  the  way  it  went  about  it. 
.  .  .  We  live  embedded  in  symbols.  If  I  could  bind 
together  all  the  visions  that  ever  I  have  had,  it 
would  come  to  something!  .  .  .  Well,  that  was 
page  the  first  of  this  vision.  But  page  the 
second — "  He  lay  still  for  a  few  moments.  "I 
cannot  well  tell  that.  I  saw  the  dim  shape  of 
man,  and  all  the  nations  and  all  the  ages  and  the 
rich  and  the  poor  and  the  fortunate  and  the 

253 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

unfortunate  moved  within  the  shape.  But  its  mind 
was  shadow  and  denied  that  this  extremity  or  that 
member  was  itself.  Limb  gazed  at  limb,  and  organ 
upon  organ  as  at  a  stranger,  a  foreigner,  an  unre 
lated  existence  across  space.  But  for  all  that  the 
great  shape — and  it  was  very  great — was  suspecting 
and  experimenting,  just  as  was  doing  the  child  on 
the  first  page."  As  Mannheim  looked  at  me  he 
visibly  gathered  energy.  He  assumed  strength,  he 
lifted  himself  on  his  arm.  "Then,  Michael,  I  saw 
the  sun  rise  over  the  mind !  No  longer  these  myriad, 
myriad,  partial,  contending  things,  held  only  as 
by  a  film,  an  atmosphere,  into  a  shape — but  where 
they  had  been,  a  glory  of  light  and  warmth,  essential, 
sufficing — a  consciousness,  a  Being!  Man  conscious 
at  last  of  Man's  Self — the  great  Male-Female — the 
great  Man-Woman-Child — the  Trinity — the  One! 
.  .  .  And  all  so  simple,  far  simpler  than  being  thou 
sands  apart!" 

His  face  shone,  he  lay  back;  the  light  faded, 
and  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  he  was  going. 
I  gave  him  a  stimulant.  After  a  while  he  spoke 
again:  "You're  one  of  the  new  children.  The 
new  children  will  come  into  the  sense  of  it.  There 
has  been  preached  brotherhood.  But  brotherhood 
supposes  something  closer  yet.  You  will  preach 
identity." 

A  few  nights  later  he  died.  Sir  Charles  and 
Llewellyn,  Sydney,  and  I  watched  him  go.  It  was 
a  quiet  death,  simple  and  silent,  a  gradual  mounting 
a  stair  into  light  and  distance. 

We  laid  Mannheim's  body  in  the  forest,  under  a 
palm-tree. 

254 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

The  rains  now  were  come.  The  stream  poured 
dark  and  swollen,  the  forest  was  like  sea  moss,  the 
sky  all  gray,  the  fall  steady,  flooding,  and  loud. 
We  lived  out  this  season  in  the  Pygmy  village. 
Routine  life  and  work  carried  themselves  on.  We 
kept  alike  our  own  men  and  the  small  people  our 
hosts  in  hand  and  in  a  mood  of  amity.  With  the 
former  Ahasuerus  was,  throughout  Africa,  a  mighty 
help.  He  became,  as  it  were,  their  far-traveled 
prince  and  magician.  What  tales  he  told  them  I 
would  not  inquire  too  closely.  But  he  was  a  tall, 
strong  man,  inside  as  outside,  and  he  helped  us 
greatly  in  many  a  pinch. 

Carthew  Roberts,  too,  the  born  laugher,  helped. 
Once,  as  we  sat  around  our  fire,  he  gave  us  his 
philosophy.  "  Haven't  you  seen  in  some  park  or 
estate,  perched  on  some  big  viewpoint,  a  pavilion 
or  some  such  structure  where  each  side  is  set  with 
glass  of  a  different  color?  There  used  to  be  one  in 
the  grounds  of  some  villa  above  Genoa.  Through 
this  window  showed  a  red  world,  through  this  one 
a  blue.  One  saw  everything  cut  in  bronze,  and 
another  had  a  leaden  earth  and  sky,  and  to  another 
the  entire  thing  was  bathed  in  couleur-de  rose.  The 
world's  the  way  you  look  at  it!  You're  the  seer. 
It's  perfectly  possible  to  view  the  whole  great  toy 
shop  as  filled  with  the  friendliest,  grinning,  grotesque, 
pleasant  things.  To  a  seer  with  a  certain  apparatus 
it's  an  amusing  place,  quite  profoundly  odd  and  funny ! 
That's  me.  The  instant  that  isn't  amusing  gives  the 
fillip  to  the  next  instant  that  is.  I've  heard  the 
very  skies  laugh — and  as  for  the  small  things  that 
laugh — !  Don't  you  know  what  it  is  for  a  situation 

255 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

— a  piece  of  the  pattern,  length  of  Penelope's  web — 
to  laugh?" 

"It's  ironic  laughter,  often,"  said  Ferraro. 

"Oh  yes!  I  see,  too,  when  the  hook  doesn't  hit 
the  eye — but  there's  a  laugh  of  pure  delight  because 
there's  fun  in  the  heart  of  things!" 

"Oh,  I  grant  you,"  answered  the  Italian.  "The 
thing  that  isn't  at  the  heart  of  things  isn't  anywhere. 
And  as  for  your  windows,  one  may  look  out  of  them 
all  in  turn.  Were  we  more  evolved  perhaps  we  might 
look  out  of  all  at  once!  But  that  would  be  fused 
rays — light  of  glory — " 

At  night,  ere  I  slept,  I  went  from  this  village,  this 
forest,  to  Restwell  and  Flowerfield.  I  now  definitely 
ceased  to  say,  "I  go  in  memory,"  or,  "in  imagina 
tion,"  or,  "I  go  there  because  the  reasoning  mind, 
holding  these  places  to  be  in  being,  attended  by 
such-and-such  features,  can,  by  its  own  power,  col 
lect  them  before  it — nay  more,  because  it  is  brought 
into  a  condition  of  calm  and  unhurry  and,  speaking 
relatively,  can  see  somewhat  into  the  depth  of  things 
and  set  them  in  wholes,  it  can  give  with  correctness 
a  heightened  reality."  I  ceased  to  explain  to  my 
self.  I  acted.  I  simply  went  to  Flowerfield  and 
Restwell  —  went  in  leading-strings,  with  the  limi 
tations  and  inabilities  of  that  but  one  degree  ad 
vance  in  powers,  but  went,  as  you,  too,  O  reader, 
may  go!  And  if  I  went,  or  if  I  said,  "Arise  in  me!" 
what  odds,  so  long  as  there  came  into  presence  the 
desired? 

Restwell — Flowerfield.  I  lay  in  my  old  bed,  in 
my  old  room.  Mammy  sang  to  me.  She  sang 
"Golden  Slippers,"  or  she  sang: 

256 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"Swing  low,  sweet  chariot, 
Coming  for  to  carry  me  home — " 

The  stars  looked  in  at  the  window.  The  dawn 
blossomed.  The  crowing  cock  cried,  * '  Boy,  it's  day !" 
I  went  about  the  farm  with  my  grandfather.  His 
gentle,  drawling  voice  said  this,  said  that.  My 
mother  and  I  walked  in  the  orchard.  .  .  .  Aunt  Sarah 
and  I  kept  the  gravestones  clean.  The  fire  burned 
in  Daddy  Guinea's  cabin,  and  he  told  me  how  the 
fox  and  the  bear  and  the  deer  and  the  rabbit  grew 
acquainted. 

A  thousand,  thousand  days  and  hours — great 
picture-books  turned,  leaf  by  leaf — and  all  capable 
of  a  strange,  rich  vivification!  The  farther  road 
brought  to  the  aid  of  the  earlier  road — poems 
learned  long  ago  seen  into  now.  .  .  .  The  past  lost 
nothing  worth  the  while;  it  stood  through  and 
through  to  be  the  gainer. 

I  pervaded,  like  the  ether,  the  big,  unencumbered, 
singing  house  at  Flowerfield.  Every  house,  every 
place,  had  always  for  me  its  own  note,  flavor,  odor, 
personality,  effect  built  from  innumerable  effects.  .  . . 
Flowerfield  and  Miriam  and  I  in  one  there.  .  .  .  John, 
too,  was  with  us. 

Madam  Black.  Swiftly,  decisively,  came  aware 
ness  of  our  old  teacher.  Now  it  was  something  more 
than  that,  now  she  was  better  understood.  There 
was  communication  between  adults. 

An  old,  wise,  rich  spirit  was  here. 

Death  is  not  an  idle  word,  nor  is  change,  nor  ab 
sence.  But  they  are  far  other  than  that  which  to 
most  of  us  they  seem. 

257 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

Now  far  away  from  the  surface  mind,  behind  the 
golden  vase  that  hides  so  much,  there  was  talk 
again  with  Madam  Black,  and  in  a  surer,  swifter 
language  than  the  surface  tongue  has  mastered. 

''You  three,"  she  said,  "are  all  new  children." 
She  used  the  term  that  Mannheim  had  used.  "I 
felt  that  when  I  taught  you,  but  it  is  clearer  now.  .  .  . 
For  those  who  can  touch  and  hold  there  is  endless 
magic,  richness,  goodness!  Every  single  thing  is  a 
key  and  a  portal.  What  so  many  call  life  is  only 
the  skin  of  the  grape." 

•  Madam  Black  and  Miriam  and  John  and  I  went 
far  afield  together.  She  was  like  an  old  and  very 
wise  chieftainess,  priestess,  prophetess — a  great  per 
son  with  whom  to  mark  the  earth  and  the  history 
of  it. 

"Of  course  we  are  many — that  is  much — in  one!" 
she  said.  "Everybody  is  everybody  else.  We  bathe 
in  one  another's  beams  and  find  they  are  our  own. 
What  is  the  Great  Day  but  the  day  when  All  re 
members  All?  The  glorious  Recollection.  Then  we 
all  find  our  market  that  we've  been  weaving  for 
and  planning  for.  The  market  is  Life  Everlasting. 
The  road  to  Recollection  is  by  recollecting — to 
Recognition  by  recognizing — to  All  Love  is  by 
loving.  Come!  Let  us  remember  in  great  land 
scapes  and  streams.  Where  we  dive  in  does  not 
greatly  matter.  One  thing  leads  to  another." 

I  said  to  her,  "What  about  that  which  should  be 
forgotten?" 

I  felt  her  smile  within  me.  "Well — !  It  forgets 
itself— in  light." 

We  who  were  always  together  went  far  and  wide 

258 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

with  Madam  Black.    And  as  she  said,  there  is  magic 
and  richness  and  goodness. 

There  was  now  a  deep  world  back  of  the  outward 
point  of  attention  that  called  itself,  that  was  called, 
Michael  Forth.  Behind  that  point,  as  behind  all 
such  points,  are  interpenetrative  spheres. 


259 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

OEPARATION  from  those  who  are  "dead"  had 
O  melted  from  me.  Separation  from  those  who 
are  living  I  saw  to  be  a  phantasm.  It  would  last 
as  long  as  we  chose  to  let  it  last;  it  would  go  away 
when  we  chose  that  it  should  go  away.  Separation 
from  those  to  come — they  are  ourselves!  We  re 
turning,  we  continuing,  we  the  world's  future  as  we 
are  its  present  and  its  past. 

The  task  was  for  the  small  city,  the  small  country, 
at  present  calling  itself  Michael  Forth,  to  realize 
into  all  that  it  yet  held  to  be  without,  into  all  that 
it  must  hold  to  be  above.  That  was  the  task,  that 
was  the  desire  .  .  .  desire  that  all  cities  and  countries 
waken  to  the  mounting  interest,  the  song,  the  lovers' 
meeting  of  reality. 

"Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meetings 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know — " 

The  rains  were  past.  We  were  gone  from  the 
stream  and  the  Pygmies'  village,  and  the  grave  of 
Mannheim  beneath  the  palm.  Maxwell  and  Fer- 
raro  undertook  care  and  furtherance  of  the  nat 
uralist's  collection,  and,  later,  Llewellyn  and  I 
brought  "Mannheim's  Notes"  into  order,  and  later 
yet  saw  to  their  publication. 

260 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

We  journeyed  on  through  middle  Africa.  We 
encountered  heated,  endless  forests,  and  tribes,  much 
alike,  of  men  near  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  Some  had 
an  uneasy  stirring,  looking  toward  the  rung  above. 
We  saw  individuals  who  were  climbing  thither.  And 
never,  in  Africa  nor  anywiiere  else,  did  I  see,  have 
ever  I  seen,  anything  save  climbing  stuff! 

Time  passed.  At  a  certain  village — capital  of  a 
king  named  Tamewa — we  were  made  and  held  pris 
oners  for  seven  weeks.  There  were  days  here  when 
we  confidently  looked  for  death.  There  was  a  night 
when  we  white  men,  and  with  us  Ahasuerus,  were 
bound  with  withes  and  heard  without  the  hut  sav 
age  preparations  for  an  execution,  and  saw  red, 
darting  light  of  kindled  fires.  But  when  the  cocks 
were  crowing  came  rescue.  A  man  from  among  our 
carriers,  stealing  away,  had  gone  leagues  through 
the  forest,  back  to  a  friendly  people  from  wrhose 
village  we  had  come  to  Tamewa's — had  gone  and 
come  again  with  chiefs  and  a  considerable  company 
of  men  and  loud  representations  to  Tamewa.  At 
last,  after  enormous  discussion,  entered  agreement. 
Released  from  bonds,  we  became  fantastically  hon 
ored  guests — and  yet  might  not  go  from  Tamewa's 
town  until  that  seven  weeks  had  passed. 

The  night  that  we  were  tied  within  the  hut,  seeing 
that  there  could  be  no  sleeping,  and  it  was  best 
there  be  no  talking,  each  went,  doubtless,  according 
to  his  own  drawing  into  the  inner  country.  I  was 
thinking.  .  .  . 

A  fact  of  communication  between  minds  at  a 
distance — space  distance,  time  distance,  state  of 
consciousness  distance.  An  over-voice,  as  written 

261 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

or  printed  words,  as  telephone  or  telegraph  were 
over-voices — but  without  pen,  paper,  mail-trains, 
poles  and  wires.  Transmitters  and  receivers,  each 
both  .  .  .  vastly  subtler  telegraphing,  telephoning, 
interhearing,  interseeing,  interknowing.  .  .  .  Cir 
culation  of  thought,  circulation  of  emotion,  sensa 
tion;  circulation  of  experience,  understanding — for 
ever  flowing,  forever,  as  it  turned  upon  itself,  richer, 
wiser,  than  it  had  been  before.  So,  though  it  turned, 
it  was  not  the  same;  so  it  became  a  spiral  movement, 
concentric  rings,  each  including  the  earlier  turnings, 
each,  in  the  long  run,  bettering  those  before.  .  .  . 
Shoreless  sea  of  energy,  refining  itself,  transmuting 
forever  its  own  cold  into  fervor,  its  dark  into  light, 
changing  forever  less  knowledge  for  more,  less  love 
for  more,  less  power  and  joy  for  more. 

I  thought  it  an  absurdity  if  there  be  no  deepen 
ing  speech,  no  farther-carrying  vision,  between  part 
and  part  of  a  thing  that  as  a  whole  perpetu 
ally  changed  state  for  better  state.  As  the  whole 
grew  more  richly  conscious,  every  part  must  do  so, 
too.  ...  Or  as  every  part  grew  more  richly  con 
scious  the  whole  must  do  so,  too.  .  .  .  Put  it  as  you 
choose ! 

The  immediate  sharing  of  sensation  or  of  knowl 
edge.  ...  In  strong  concentration,  in  contemplation, 
there  was  no  thought  given  to  the  field  through 
which,  from  "far"  points,  perception  flashed.  All 
was  lost  in  I-ness — One-ness — Continuousness.  Dis 
tance  in  space — distance  in  time — partialness  in 
event — ceased  their  troubling. 

By  the  light  passage  we  were  but  ten  minutes  from 
the  sun.  The  universal  draw  of  attraction  took  no 

262 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

time  at  all.  Ethereal — perfectly  penetrative  and 
penetrable.  .  .  .  Learn  to  use  the  ether! 

My  mother  spoke  to  me.  "Michael,  they  are 
coming  through  the  forest — men  to  help.  They  will 
be  here  in  an  hour." 

I  said  to  the  others:  "The  Bangala  that  we  left 
are  coming  through  the  forest.  Zurti  persuaded 
them.  They  will  be  here  in  an  hour." 

It  happened  so.  ...  Sir  Charles  spoke  to  me,  aside, 
the  next  day.  "How  did  you  know  that,  Michael?" 

"How  do  we  know  anything?  It's  all  of  a  piece 
that  can  be  unrolled,  which  is  to  say,  understood, 
further  and  further.  .  .  .  My  mother  told  me." 

"Within  you?  You  said  on  the  mountain  that  all 
that  was  within  you." 

"Yes.  But  'within  you*  opens  into  a  great  land. 
'The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  is  within  you.'  It  isn't  a 
small  kingdom." 

"Tell  me  plainly,"  he  said.  "Do  you  think  that 
your  mother  lives?" 

"I  do." 

"But  conscious — remembering — able  to  act?" 

"Yes.  Able  to  grow — that  is,  to  increase  in  con 
sciousness  and  power." 

"And  you  expect  to  meet  her?" 

"I  do  meet  her.  I  expect  to  meet  her  more  com 
pletely.  Far  more  completely." 

"I  wish  that  I  knew!"  he  said.  "There  are  per 
sons  with  whom  I  wish  to  live  again." 

The  time-water  flowed  over  the  time-wheel.  This 
tribe,  uncertain  between  slaying  and  saving,  let  us 
go.  We  went  on.  Sometimes  we  traveled  through 
the  forest.  Sometimes — often  indeed — we  went  in 

263 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

boats,  long  distances  down  the  full  river  in  native 
boats.  We  tarried  in  villages;  we  left  the  rubbing 
and  beating  of  drums,  the  chanting,  the  dancing, 
and  we  came  in  little  time  again  to  rubbing  and 
beating  of  drums,  to  chanting  and  dancing.  We 
left  idols  and  came  to  idols.  I  felt  no  contemptu- 
ousness  toward  these.  Idols  are  divinities  and  have 
a  kinship,  or  in  their  stage  of  True-God-on-High, 
or  in  their  stage  of  relegation. 

Middle  Africa — Africa  sloping  to  the  west,  country 
of  the  Congo  with  all  its  ancestors  gathered  in  its 
bosom.  .  .  .  There  began,  as  it  were,  an  inward  mur 
muring  of  ocean,  of  England — America. 

The  ancient,  imperfect,  compounded  ideation  that 
we  call  these  bodies,  these  purposes  and  acts,  this 
environment,  situation,  circumstance,  this  earth 
under  our  poor  two  eyes,  all  the  accustomed,  re 
membered,  repeated,  "  living, "  flowed  or  stumbled 
quite  enough  as  usual.  I  was  aware  of  certain  dif 
ferences.  All  outward  matters  must  finally  change 
as  changes  the  inward  star.  If  the  center  strongly 
shines  the  circumference  will  know  it.  If  the  center 
grows  lethargic,  all  the  outland  stiffens,  darkens.  I 
was  aware  that  there  must  be  shining  all  along  the 
way  from  the  star.  Light  grew  intenser,  colors  more 
brilliant.  Thorn  hedges  and  hard  walls  vanished, 
and  there  were  richer  wholes.  There  was  sense  of 
the  in-ness  of  things,  and  sometimes  cause  and 
effect  were  seen  as  one  form.  The  time  sense,  too, 
was  changing.  .  .  .  But  yet  it  was  all  but  one  taste  of 
the  honey — 

Llewellyn  and  I  were  moving  in  a  boat  up  some 
arm  of  Congo,  volunteers  to  discover  what  lay  be- 

264 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

yond  a  certain  sharp  point  of  shore.  The  negroes 
who  rowed  us  had  their  own  preoccupations.  The 
banks  were  somber,  the  stream  deep  and  still  and 
darkened  by  overhanging  clouds.  We  had  been 
sitting  in  silence.  Llewellyn  broke  it.  "I,  too, 
have  the  historic  sense,"  he  said.  "When  you  have 
that  very  thoroughly  you  assume  an  individual  and 
his  acts.  You  can't  say  him  or  her;  it's  both. 
Hermaphrodite,  or  some  better  word  than  that,  if 
you  please!  It  is  all  right  as  long  as  you  know  that 
all  sex  and  no  sex  is  there.  You  may  call  it  This 
World,  or  Earth,  or  Planetary  Being,  or  Man,  or 
what  you  please.  But  the  inorganic  must  go  in  as 
well  as  the  organic,  plant  as  well  as  animal,  animal 
as  well  as  human,  one  kind  as  well  as  another  kind! 
All  the  classes  and  castes.  Then  This  World  thinks 
itself  out,  changing  from  power  to  power.  Hence 
Drama — its  own.  Narratives,  Epics,  Tragedies, 
Comedies,  and  the  hair  balance  between.  Lyrical 
outbursts  .  .  .  Mnemosyne — Pythoness — Dionysos 
— Aphrodite — Apollo — Pallas — Zeus!  The  wildest, 
greatest,  most  abandoned,  most  controlled  drama 
in  three  dimensions.  .  .  .  This  world's  a  Genius!" 

"More  light  than  dark." 

"I  should  hope  so.  At  any  rate,  the  light  must 
be  growing.  ...  I  seem  to  see  that  it's  had  its  infancy 
and  childhood,  and  that  now  it's  in  the  strangest 
turmoil  of  adolescence.  But  infancy  and  childhood — ! 
My  God!  What  resumes  of  what  in  our  little  way 
we  call  Ancient  Sin,  Adult  Wrong!" 

We  went  on  in  silence  for  a  time.  I  looked  at  the 
leaden  sky.  Llewellyn  had  been  thinking  aloud, 
and  now  I,  too,  thought  aloud.  "In  the  Confessions 

265 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

of  Saint  Augustine  there  is  a  page  that  well  gives 
what  is  coiled  up,  remembered,  stored,  in  one's 
self  as  little  infant  in  a  little  cradle.  It  runs  like 
this.  'Was  it  then  good,  even  for  a  while,  to  cry 
for  what,  if  given,  would  hurt?  bitterly  to  resent 
that  persons,  free  and  its  own  elders,  yea,  the  very 
authors  of  its  birth,  served  it  not  ?  that  many  besides, 
wiser  than  it,  obeyed  not  the  nod  of  its  good  pleasure  ? 
to  do  its  best  to  strike  and  hurt  because  commands 
were  not  obeyed  which  had  been  obeyed  to  its  hurt  ? 
The  weakness  of  infant  limbs,  not  its  will,  is  its 
innocence.  Myself  have  seen  and  known  even  a 
baby  envious;  it  could  not  speak,  yet  it  turned  pale 
and  looked  bitterly  on  its  foster-brother.  ...  Is  that, 
too,  innocence,  when  the  fountain  of  milk  is  flowing 
in  rich  abundance,  not  to  endure  one  to  share  it, 
though  in  extremest  need?  .  .  .  This  age  I  am  yet  loath 
to  count  in  this  life  of  mine  which  I  live  in  this 
world.  For  no  less  than  that  which  I  spent  in  my 
mother's  womb  is  it  hid  from  me  in  the  shadows  of 
forgetfulness.  .  .  .  But,  I  beseech  thee,  O  my  God, 
where,  Lord,  or  when  was  I  guiltless?"" 

The  banks  were  somber,  the  sky  was  a  roof  of 
whirling  vapor.  ''And  elsewhere  he  says,  'Did  my 
infancy  succeed  another  age  of  mine  that  died  be 
fore  it?  Was  it  that  which  I  spent  within  my  moth 
er's  womb  .  .  .  and  what  before  that  life  again,  O 
God  my  joy!  was  I  anywhere  or  anybody?  For 
this  I  have  none  to  tell  me,  neither  father  nor  mother 
nor  experience  of  others,  nor  mine  own  memory. '" 

The  boat  moved  on.  The  forest  was  still,  but  the 
river  voice  carried  fathomless  undertones.  "What 
do  you  think  there?"  said  Llewellyn. 

266 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"I  think  that  some  day  we  will  take,  unravel,  and 
look  at  our  cell  life,  embryonic  life,  child  life.  Then 
will  we  know  in  our  own  proper  person,  plane  after 
plane,  that  past  living  that  at  each  point  we  called 
adult.  Species-mind  cognizing  species-life.  World- 
mind  cognizing  world-life.  Then  shall  we  see  where 
came  in  the  lethargies,  mistakes,  self-limitations, 
inhibitions,  perversions,  mislikes,  recoils,  fears — 
that  at  last  we  must  call  thick  ignorance,  hatred, 
terror,  guilt  ..." 

Beyond  the  point  of  shore  we  found  a  long,  narrow 
reach  of  wrater,  and  upon  one  bank  a  diminutive 
settlement,  a  very  few  thatched  huts  dwelt  in  by 
a  remnant  of  a  tribe,  wasted  apparently  by  disease 
and  war.  By  now  the  clouds  had  broken  in  a  down 
pour.  The  day  was  advanced  and  our  rowers  un 
willing  to  turn  down-stream  into  wet  and  night. 
We  were  armed,  and  we  had  with  us  beads  and  cloth 
for  purposes  of  propitiation  and  exchange.  Standing 
off  the  bank,  we  made  due  explanations  and  proffers 
of  friendship  to  the  men  who  had  run  from  the  huts 
with  bows  and  arrows  and  menacing  shouts.  Re 
assured,  they  let  us  land.  The  shining  beads  and 
scarlet  cloth  worked  as  almost  always  they  worked. 
Presently  we  had  food  and  shelter  for  the  night. 

Llewellyn  and  I  lay  in  a  fairly  clean  hut  in  thick 
darkness,  with  river  and  wind  for  lullaby.  We  lay 
wakeful,  in  silence.  "Well!  Let  us  go  to  sleep," 
he  said  at  last,  and  turned. 

I  addressed  myself  to  sleep — but  instead  of  enter 
ing  that  land  a  curtain  parted  and  I  was  in  another. 
Before  I  crossed  the  frontier  I  was  re-aware  of  a  day 
at  Restwell,  two  years  ago.  The  river  there — a 

267 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

boac — Dorothea  and  I  rowing  beneath  the  willows. 
That  hour  had  extension  and  volume  it  had  not 
seemed  then  to  possess.  .  .  .  That  scene  closed.  I 
was  over  the  frontier — no  longer  Michael  Forth 
only,  but  many-folded  sensation,  knowledge,  pas 
sion,  life. 

Without  more  warning  than  the  mood  of  this  place 
and  that  flash  of  association,  I  stumbled  into  the 
woe  of  the  world. 

"So  I  returned  and  considered  all  the  oppressions 
that  are  done  under  the  sun" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  die.  .  .  . 

The  oppressions  and  the  woe  were  my  own. 
Peine  forte  et  dure — and  I  was  the  victim  under  the 
stone,  and  I  was  the  weight  that  crushed,  and  I  was 
they  who  stretched  me  there  and  put  the  millstone 
on  me.  And  the  misery  of  all  three  was  the  same. 

"If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 

Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain — " 

Woe  and  woe  and  double  woe ! 

Into  me  drew,  around,  within  me,  whirled  pain  and 
guilt,  the  great  maelstrom. 

Over  and  over  the  brain  gave  images — but  it  was 
that  which  touch  gave  me,  not  that  which  sight 
gave.  .  .  .  Oh,  God  in  me — my  own  hope  in  me — 
raise  hell  to  purgatory,  purgatory  to  the  beginning 
of  wisdom! 

Woe  of  the  world — light-lack,  love-lack.  ...  As 
there  can  be  no  going  out,  as  never,  never  can  we  go 
out — where  they  lack,  what  can  be  but  aching  want? 

I  ached — I  ached. 

268 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

It  seemed  recapitulation,  it  seemed  also  lateral 
sharing.  All  of  us  down  there  in  those  moments — 
and  all  of  us  now  in  these  moments.  All  of  us  from 
pole  to  pole.  All  of  us  that  were  one  and  are  one. 
Mankind  is  one  being.  It  feels  the  woe  of  head  and 
the  woe  of  foot,  the  woe  of  the  one  hand  and  of  the 
other  hand.  It  is  the  worse  for  the  ice-bound  heart, 
and  the  worse  for  the  tattered,  lack-thrift  brain  that 
will  not  learn  to  use  its  wealth. 

It  longed  for  health — poor  Mankind — poor  God- 
that-would-be!  with  all  its  members  warring,  with 
hardly  a  piece  of  tissue  glimpsing  the  truth! 

Oh,  long  woe  and  sickness !  Oh,  tatters  and  dungeon 
of  ignorance!  Oh,  hearth  where  the  fire  is  but  a 
spark!  .  .  .  Where  shall  we  get  fuel? 

Lay  the  little  self  tliere  for  fuel. 

.  .  .  Time  passed,  though  time  passed  slowly.  .  .  . 
The  wind  and  the  rain  outside  had  ceased,  there  fell 
a  great  hush.  In  me,  too,  was  now  a  stillness.  It 
was  dark,  but  the  air  of  it  was  not  heavy — a  clear 
darkness,  clean,  with  a  taste  of  myrrh.  This  en 
larged — there  seemed  a  firmament  very  deep  and 
vast,  still,  pure,  ineffable,  though  still  dark.  .  .  . 
Then  gathered  from  somewhere  the  sense  of  truth 
— and  there  was  a  white  and  splendid  star  in  the 
dark. 


269 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

/ 

SIX  months  from  that  night  we  were  out  of  Africa. 
Sir  Charles  and  Llewellyn,  Maxwell,  Ferraro, 
Roberts,  Sydney,  and  I  entered  the  English  ship. 

But  in  that  very  port  town  where  we  waited  for 
it  Ahasuerus  died. 

He  and  I  held  hands  at  the  last.  We  had  been 
together  since  so  early  at  Rest  well,  when  he  used  to 
lift  me  in  his  arms.  I  lifted  him  now  in  my  arms 
and  he  said  that  he  saw  Daddy  Guinea  and 
went.  .  .  . 

Those  of  us  who  came  again  to  England  walked  the 
deck  of  the  slow-sailing  ship,  or  by  the  rail  watched 
the  tumbling  waves  and  smelled  the  healthful  brine. 
Down  in  the  cabin  we  gathered  together;  we  went 
over  the  written  records  of  over  two  years.  Such 
and  such  things  were  sheaves  for  the  granary  of 
knowledge.  Again  we  must  contemplate  abortive 
attempts.  Even  so,  there  had  been  learning,  even 
by  the  rule  of  false.  The  trying  out  was  not  wasted. 
Here  is  thoroughfare — here  seems  no  thoroughfare. 
Out  of  all  came  enough  well  to  repay  the  backers  of 
the  expedition.  As  for  us,  the  adventurers,  we  had 
the  gain  of  experience — each  one  his  sack  of  raw 
material  for  further  experience. 

Upon  the  ship  I  put  into  legible  shape  Letters  from 
Africa.  ...  By  now  I  fully  saw  that  I  might  not 

270 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

return  to  that  engineering  for  which  I  had  trained. 
I  said  as  much  to  Maxwell.  "I've  thought  that  for 
some  time,"  he  answered.  "You're  a  good  civil 
and  mining  engineer.  I've  a  curious,  haunting  feel 
ing  that  I  knew  you  once  somewhere  in  the  Middle 
Ages  when  you  were  a  good  military  engineer.  But 
I  think  you'll  go  on  now  with  another  material,  or 
the  same  material  in  another  condition — I  don't 
know  which!  Engineering  intellect,  engineering  im 
agination — "  He  fell  silent,  looking  at  the  meeting- 
place  of  blue  sky  and  blue  sea. 

"The  old  words  are  mostly  good  words,"  I  said. 
"They  are  sound  kernels  that  sprout  and  grow,  and 
presently  wave  overhead  where  once  they  thrilled 
underfoot.  So  then  I  continue  engineering!" 

"Look  at  that  blue,"  he  said.  "How  deep  do  you 
suppose  it  is  ?  I  am  going  with  Sir  Charles  to  Persia. 
He  wants  to  know  if  you'll  come,  too." 

"No.     I  am  going  home  now." 

"What  is  before  the  world,  Michael?  I'm  a  kind 
of  desert  spirit — dry  light  and  an  uncluttered  habi 
tat.  .  .  .  But  I  do  certainly  feel  that  there  are  things 
preparing  in  the  very  hollow  of  light." 

"We're  in  the  age  of  talk  and  dream." 

"So!  Well,  when  is  the  world  creature  going  to 
work?19 

"It's  an  embryo.  It's  fed  yet  from  its  mother, 
breathes  yet  with  its  mother.  Wait  till  it  breathes  of 
itself." 

"It's  all  figures  and  images  and  symbols!" 

"It  can't  help  it.  It,s  got  to  talk  through  its 
mother — earth  with  tongue  of  moon,  sun  with  tongue 
of  earth.  .  .  .  Wait!  It  will  get  its  own  words." 

271 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"We  are  consciously  to  be  the  mighty  one  we 
dream  at  times?" 

* '  Yes.  When  the  consciousness  unfolds  sufficiently 
we  shall  leave  the  mother. ...  It  is  the  second  birth." 

Sir  Charles  called  him  from  the  cabin  door.  He 
went,  but  I  stayed  by  the  rail,  watching  that  marvel 
of  sapphire.  The  ship  and  the  wind  lived  and  sang. 
Old  Mother  Sea  and  all  her  people  ran  free.  They 
cried,  "We,  too,  are  in  you,  and  you  are  in  us!" 

I  had  a  vision.  I  saw  the  inhabitants  of  the 
earth — and  a  many  and  a  many  were  they — and  I 
felt  them  in  my  veins.  I  saw  them  as  I  would  see 
the  points  of  my  body,  and  I  felt  them  as  I  felt  my 
own  warmth.  I  heard  the  ocean  voice  of  them,  and 
it  was  such  a  sound  that  God  give  us  joy  in  sustaining 
it !  "  We  are  in  you  and  you  are  in  us!" 

We  are  One!  Now  I  am  out  to  encounter  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  One. 

Only  the  all  can  know,  enjoy,  love  the  all. 

The  great  lover  and  the  as  great  beloved. 

Ah,  mighty  hope  of  union — ah,  romance  ever 
lasting!  .  .  . 

The  ship  and  the  wind  and  the  sapphire  sea  voy 
aged  and  came  to  England. 

I  stayed  a  month  in  England.  Flowerfield  cabled 
in  answer  to  my  cable  that  all  were  well  at  Restwell 
and  Flowerfield — all  well,  all  living.  Miriam  cabled : 

MICHAEL.     Wake-robin  Hill. 

MIRIAM. 

Maxwell  was  not  now  returning  to  America.  I 
was  much  with  him  in  this  month  and  with  the 

272 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

others,  all  of  whom  I  loved.  Sir  Charles  had  an 
old,  beautiful  home  in  Kent.  I  went  here  for  a  few 
days  with  Maxwell.  And  I  went  with  John  Sydney 
to  an  ancient,  not  large,  house  that  from  the  Sussex 
downs  faced  the  sea.  In  London  befell  for  all  of  us  the 
to-be-expected  lionizing.  Not  excessive  lionizing, 
for  the  expedition  was  a  quiet  and  solid  thing  and 
only  some  small  extension  of  knowledge  appeared 
as  result.  But  the  societies  immediately  interested 
welcomed  us,  and  the  newspapers  had  their  accounts. 

I  sought  out  Mannheim's  lodging  and  found  a 
set  of  old  rooms,  high,  fairly  large,  quiet,  sparely 
furnished.  Beneath  the  window  roared  London  of 
the  poor.  Here  lived  a  sister,  a  brother,  and  a 
cousin.  The  sister  was  much  like  the  man  whose 
body  lay  under  the  palms  in  Africa.  She  showed 
me  the  room  where  Mannheim  had  worked,  and  his 
books  and  collections.  Once  her  tears  fell,  but  she 
wiped  them  away.  "He  and  I  understand,"  she  said. 
"It  is  going  to  be  all  right.  There  is  little  to  fret 
about."  But  back  in  the  outer  room  the  cousin  was 
full  of  woe  and  could  only  croak  and  toll,  poor 
thing!  of  separation.  And  going  down-stairs  the 
brother  was  full  of  fears.  "There  was  very  little 
money.  Yes,  I  made  him  have  his  life  insured — 
but  it  isn't  much.  I'll  do  my  best,  of  course,  but  he 
was  the  eldest.  He  ought  to  have — " 

Going  away  from  here,  poor  London  streamed 
about  me.  I  stood  in  a  church  porch  and  watched 
the  flood,  listened  to  its  voice.  Poverty  more  than 
of  clothes  and  dwellings — 

I  began  to  see  in  streams  my  own  faults. 

I  saw  them  again  when  I  went,  a  day  or  two  later, 

273 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

to  view  some  great  show  where,  a  show  itself,  rich 
London  went  by. 

One  body  and  its  humors. 

Self -correction.  . .  .  Oh,  star  in  the  dark,  show  how! 

From  within  without — and  behind  every  bit  of 
without  the  vast  within!  In  the  within  was  some 
thing  like  free  movement.  In  the  within  was  coun 
sel.  Long  patience — long  effort  in  patience.  .  .  . 

I  went  here,  I  went  there  in  London.  From  the 
country  behind  this  country  Miriam  and  I  looked 
at  these  things  together — Miriam  and  I  and  all 
our  race.  .  .  .  Cities!  I  saw  them  one  night 
in  panorama — ancient  and  middle  time  and  to-day 
— by  the  sea  and  among  the  hills,  by  young  rivers, 
on  windy  plains,  and  under  volcanoes  and  where 
the  earthquake  shook  them  and  where  the  snow 
fell;  cities  where  the  throngs  moved  in  spare,  light 
clothing,  and  cities  where  they  flung  furs  about  their 
shoulders;  cities  where  the  muezzin  cried  to  prayer, 
and  cities  where  the  church-bells  rang,  and  half- 
ruinous  cities  of  old  temples;  quiet  cities;  clanging, 
roaring  cities.  .  .  .  And  behind  the  stones  and  above 
the  streets  hung  the  motive  and  purpose  of  cities 
and  their  desires.  And  over  all  that  the  supra- 
sensible  city  whence  these  descend. 

One  evening  I  was  at  a  concert  of  music  with 
Carthew  Roberts.  When  it  was  over  he  took  me 
to  a  small  club  for  which  he  seemed  half  apologetic, 
half  proud.  It  proved  a  happy  oddity,  a  good- 
natured  gargoyle,  a  whimsy  captured  and  content 
somewhere  in  London.  There  seemed  to  be  here 
artists  of  sorts — one  even  who  was  a  member  of 
Parliament.  They  capped  speeches,  sang,  told 

274 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

stories,  or  sat  silent  behind  tobacco  smoke  as  it 
pleased  them.  I  thought  that  I  caught  sight  of 
Aristophanes,  Falstaff,  and  Pantagruel.  There  were, 
besides,  a  fry  of  court  jesters  come  again.  Necessary 
salt  for  such  a  society,  finding  in  turn  their  own  salt 
market  here,  appeared  half  a  dozen  of  the  solemner 
kind  of  earth.  I  made  out  that  one  had  a  church 
somewhere,  and  that  another  helped  edit  a  news 
paper  so  heavy  that  it  crushed  many  an  opponent. 
And  one  seemed  sad  because  the  country  was  going 
to  the  dogs. 

We  had  an  extraordinarily  amusing  evening.  And 
they  said  when  they  were  going  that  they  were 
coming  oftener  into  this  department  of  happiness. 

Pantagruel  went  homeward  with  us.  He  made  a 
large  gesture  that  seemed  to  gather  a  bunch  of  stars 
under  his  arm.  "Conceive  a  Lord  of  the  Cosmos 
who  could  not  take  a  joke — make  it  and  take  it!" 

It  was  Carthew  Roberts  again  who  showed  me 
English  royalty  going  by,  progressing  from  Buck 
ingham  to  Windsor,  or  from  Windsor  to  Bucking 
ham.  I  looked  at  the  old  queen  with  a  daughter  or 
two  beside  her — and  I  felt  a  kind  of  mist  of  regret 
for  old  sharp  realities  growing  tinsel  and  worn 
velvet.  .  .  .  The  weather  of  it  changed.  What  was 
worth  keeping  was  ever  kept!  Let  the  husk  sink 
away,  work  done!  Elsewhere  in  space,  in  younger 
earths,  Plantagenets,  Tudors — Richards,  Edwards, 
Henrys,  Elizabeths — still  hewed,  still  flashed  in 
strong  glamour.  To  each  day  its  miracle  of  unfold 
ing!  Speed  the  parting,  welcome  the  coming  guest, 
and  in  due  order  love  both. 

Again  it  was  with  Roberts  and  also  with  Pan- 

275 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

tagruel  that  I  heard  a  historic  debate  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  Far  peoples  were  talked  of,  were 
handled,  so  to  speak,  like  engraved  gems  of  a  col 
lector.  Were  they  so  dense,  so  slumbering,  so  still 
as  gems,  I  wondered?  And  then  I  knew  that  they 
were  no  such  thing,  and  that  it  was  the  House  of 
Commons'  error.  Coming  away,  said  Pantagruel, 
"I  love  to  hear  Littleman  dispose  his  destinies! 
'Now,  gentlemen,  I  take  myself  from  this  pocket, 
and  I  put  myself  in  this  pocket!  Applaud  the 
juggler!'" 

Pantagruel  and  I  went  to  the  British  Museum 
together.  "It  is  Pi,"  he  said.  " Noble  Pi,  but  Pi! 
Imagine  a  giant  child  sitting  down  in  this  hall  and 
trying  from  the  four  corners  of  the  place  to  get  a 
clear  sentence  out  of  an  alphabet,  pounded,  broken, 
and  mixed — " 

"A  shivered  mirror.  Hans  Christian  Andersen's 
Snow  Queen  one!" 

" Thoroughly  shivered!  And  yet  Littleman  the 
chimaera  must  put  the  pieces  together — " 

"In  order  to  cease  being  chimerical." 

11  Precisely  so.    Amusing,  isn't  it?" 

He  appeared  still  to  be  studying  this  at  the  end 
of  our  day  in  the  museum.  As  we  went  down  the 
steps  he  said:  "I  know  a  man  who  sees  only  the 
terror  of  the  task.  I  try  to  get  him  into  a  more 
manly,  not  to  say  goodly,  mind — but  he  delays  and 
fears!" 

I  went  alone  in  London  here  and  there.  Sitting 
one  day  by  the  fountain  in  the  Temple  precinct, 
Miriam  and  I  were  strongly  together.  I  mean  that 
on  a  plane  which  is  not  the  plane  of  small  bodies, 

276 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

we  were  together,  using  images,  as  water  is  together, 
as  air  is  together,  as  flame  is  together.  We  inter 
fused.  I  do  not  know.  Had  I  unconsciously  fallen 
to  writing  upon  the  cover  of  the  book  beside  me 
the  writing  might  have  been  as  much  the  hand  of 
Miriam  as  the  hand  of  Michael.  However  that  may 
be,  there  was  felt  the  doubled  power  of  another 
plane.  It  was  a  mind  world,  and  a  world,  too,  of 
sensation  and  of  sentiment,  but  in  a  far  wealthier 
kind  than  the  lower  plane  could  know.  .  .  .  And  yet, 
though  one  speaks  of  planes,  planes,  too,  blend  as 
fire  blends!  The  universe  is  unimaginably  fluid  and 
powerful. 

Miriam-Michael  —  but  behind  those  two  signs 
the  widest  transfusion!  Hosts  that  we  had  called 
separate,  separate,  were  there.  Behind  the  skin  of 
here  and  now,  the  enormous  communion! — away 
from  the  stiffened  cross-sections  that  we  call  form. 
...  I  sat  still  and  the  oceans  played  together. 

All  that  I  had  known  was  here,  and  there  was  a 
whispering  of  much  further  that  I  should  know. 

And  there  was  love — and  there  was  enjoyment. 

This  very  London — this  England —  I  felt  what 
it  was  to  love  a  country — love  a  world.  The  very 
ones  that  a  man  calls  foes — it  is  impossible  but  to 
love  them!  The  fire  in  the  veins  is  the  fire  of  all 
life. 


277 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

I  BADE  well-liked  companions  good-by  and  I 
sailed  west.  Then  flowed  eight  days  of  jade, 
emerald  and  lapis  sea,  and  we  came  under  the  figure 
of  Liberty,  to  the  American  shore. 

Another  day  and  I  was  in  Baltimore. 

I  waited  in  a  small,  simple  parlor,  in  a  corner  of 
a  hospital.  It  was  Miriam's.  At  twenty-eight  she 
was  superintendent  here.  I  waited.  It  was  evening. 
A  soft  light  flooded  and  pulsed.  She  came.  .  .  . 

We  wished  to  be  together,  to  work  together,  learn, 
know  joy  together  on  all  planes.  Marry!  That 
was  simple,  though  our  marriage  now  would  be 
more  and  other  than  many  an  older  marriage  of 
ours.  The  second  day  in  Baltimore  she  took  holi 
day,  and  we  went  in  the  early  morning  out  of  the 
city  into  the  country.  We  found  a  small,  quaint 
village  with  a  tolerable  hotel,  and  thence  we  walked 
into  woodland.  We  were  profoundly,  of  old  time, 
at  home  in  forest. 

We  sat  down  on  the  dry,  clean  earth  under  a 
beech.  It  was  early  spring.  The  branches  above, 
the  boles  of  surrounding  trees,  the  curtains  of  ame 
thyst  made  a  council-chamber.  We  sat,  a  king  and 
queen,  and  took  counsel. 

We  wished  living  and  home  together.  We  pon 
dered,  pacing  around  Ways  and  Means.  It  was  her 

278 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

wish  to  keep  her  profession.  But  wherever  were  hu 
man  beings  there  was  room  for  the  health-bringer. 
She  could  work,  if  need  were,  elsewhere  than  in 
Baltimore.  If  I  continued  engineering,  and  if  that 
meant,  perforce,  a  place  like  Landon,  or  where  not, 
we  would  go  there.  She  could  organize  and  work 
toward  healthful  tissue  there  as  elsewhere. 

But,  alike,  we  had  an  intuition  that  I  would  not 
again  take  up — or  not  for  long  take  up — just  that 
engineering.  We  could  not  settle  this  now;  we  laid 
it  by;  whatever  difficulties  might  arise  we  would 
meet  and  straighten  when  we  better  knew  their 
field.  We  wrere  not  without  money.  I  had  saved 
from  what  I  had  been  paid  as  Maxwell's  assistant. 
She,  too,  had  put  something  by.  She  had  worked 
hard  and  constantly  in  her  hospital  for  two  years. 
She  had  trained  one  into  whose  hands  she  could  put 
the  reins.  Let  us  take  a  good  long  holiday — two 
months,  three  months — and  look  about  us!  We 
agreed  that  we  would  do  so. 

Our  marriage.  We  were  of  a  mind  here,  too. 
"Do  you  think  they  would  be  hurt  at  Flowerfield ?" 

"If  it  were  Catherine  I  think  they  might  be. 
But  not  with  us.  ...  They've  got  a  grasp  on  us,  and 
we  on  them.  They  are  here  and  we  are  there,  any 
how,  and  they  feel  it  so.  Aunt  Sarah,  too,  at 
Restwell." 

We  determined  to  be  married  in  Baltimore,  within 
a  week — a  civil  marriage.  She  thought  that  she 
could  so  arrange  that  within  a  few  days  thereafter 
she  might  take  her  good  long  holiday.  We  would 
go  then  to  Flowerfield. 

We  rested  upon  the  brown  earth  in  the  forest,  or 

279 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

we  strayed  and  rambled  at  will  in  the  differing  beauty 
of  every  vista.  Toward  evening  we  turned  back 
to  the  village  and  the  rushing  train  and  the  lit  and 
murmurous  city. 

The  next  day  I  went  to  New  York,  and,  sleeping 
there  that  night,  arose  in  the  morning  and  took  a 
letter  that  Llewellyn  had  given  me,  and  the  manu 
script  of  Letters  from  Africa  to  a  certain  publisher. 
He  read  the  letter,  he  talked  a  little,  then  drew  tow 
ard  him  the  packet  of  manuscript.  "  We'll  read  this 
at  once,  Mr.  Forth.  Where  are  you  staying?  Sup 
pose  you  come  in  three  days  from  now." 

I  used  in  various  ways  this  length  of  time.  One 
was  to  view  artists'  canvases,  one  just  to  mark  and 
mark  again  the  life  of  this  great  hive.  The  three 
days  passed.  I  went  again  to  the  publishing-house. 
They  would  publish  the  Letters  from  Africa.  They 
thought  it  should  have  a  certain  success — how  much 
or  how  little,  of  course,  could  not  be  predicted.  It 
might  prove  caviar  to  the  general,  and  then,  again, 
popular  taste  being  the  great  X,  it  might  experience 
a  certain  demand.  One  could  never  tell  about  these 
things  out  of  the  usual  run.  At  any  rate,  they  would 
publish — in  the  autumn — and  they  would  be  glad 
to  see  anything  else  that  I  was  doing.  The  publisher 
glanced  at  the  clock.  "It's  about  luncheon-time. 
There's  a  good  cafe  around  the  corner.  Come  with 
me  and  tell  me  about  Africa."  In  mind  I  saw  him 
pin  me  and  Llewellyn's  letter  and  the  possible  in 
terest  of  the  house  together.  He  was  a  pleasant, 
oldish  fellow.  "African  explorer!"  he  said.  "There 
are  people  you  ought  to  meet.  Come  with  me  to 
my  club  to-night." 

280 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

The  following  day  I  signed  a  contract  with  the 
publishing-house.  When  it  was  done  I  walked  along 
Broadway.  The  air  lifted  and  moved,  brilliantly 
clear.  One  could  read  detail  afar.  A  huge  city,  and 
to  be  more  huge.  It  was  strongly  under  my  tongue, 
in  my  nostrils,  before  my  eyes — 

A  man  coming  toward  me  glanced  at  me,  looked 
hard,  stopped  short.  "Isn't  it  Michael  Forth?" 

' 'Isn't  it  Conrad  Conrad?" 

We  turned  into  Madison  Square  and  sat  upon  a 
bench .  ' '  Certainly  seven  years ! ' ' 

"  Nearly  that.  Do  you  still  walk  about  with 
Poe?" 

"Poe  and  others.  Do  you  still  hammer  at 
continuity?" 

"Perhaps.    Or,  having  got  it,  I  cease  hammering." 

"I  heard  that  you  were  in  Africa." 

"I  thought  of  you  as  yet  in  Paris." 

"I  was  so  till  two  years  ago.  Paris,  and  all  the 
Elsewhere  to  which  the  Paris  roads  lead!" 

"When  I  last  heard  from  you  you  had  taken  to 
painting.  Are  you  making  strange,  good  demon 
pictures?" 

He  made  his  old  grimace  with  the  earnest  coming 
out  through  the  faun  mask.  "I  partly  own  and  edit 
The  Compass.  Occasionally  I  write,  and  in  vacation 
I  paint  pictures  on  my  own  walls." 

"What  is  The  Compass?" 

"It  is  a  radical  sheet.  It's  by  way  of  being  very 
radical." 

"Politically?" 

"Politics,  Economics,  Social  Arrangements  in 
general.  Esthetics  also.  But  chiefly  economics. 

281 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

We're  subversive  there.    It's  1890.    I  give  the  world 
ten  years.     Then  I  think  change  will  begin  to  be 
apparent  to  the  dullest!" 
11  The  Compass  assisting?" 

" Certainly!  Though  I  don't  limit  it  to  The 
Compass." 

"Just  a  few  quintillions  of  other  points — " 
"Exactly!     But  do  your  individual  mightiest  all 
the  same!" 

"Just  as  though  Hercules  was  not  a  composite?" 
"Again  you  catch  the  idea.     Don't  you  want  to 
do  an  article  for  the  June  issue?    I  think  you  could 
do  it,  Old  Continuity! — Continuity  of  Cosmic  Ad 
venture,  for  instance?    Continuity  of  Pioneering — 

'"For  we  cannot  tarry  here, 

We  must  march,  my  darlings,  we  must  bear  the  brunt  of  danger, 
We  the  youthful,  sinewy  races,  all  the  rest  on  us  depends — '" 

"It  is  Whitman  now,  not  Poe?" 

"I  carry  Poe  in  Whitman.  ...  I  tell  you,  Michael, 
after  a  while,  if  you're  truly  an  artist,  you've  got 
to  get  your  hands  on  the  whole  material!" 

"Agreed!  Just  so  long  as,  like  Whitman,  you 
guard  every  particle  of  the  'I*  that's  flowing 
through  and  through  the  material." 

"In  other  words,  consider  the  Bigness  of  the 
Right?" 

"Just." 

"Do  you  remember  that  riding-trip  we  took? 
The  Bridge  and  the  Fourth  of  July  oration  and  the 
Peaks?  Do  you  remember  that  debate  on  the 
Color  of  Reality,  in  the  Ultra- Violet  Club?" 

"Aye.  Iridescence,  the  Various  We,  for  the  de- 

282 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

scending  arc — White  Light,  Sunlight,  for  the  ascend 
ing.  But  you  took  black,  old  Conrad,  and  made  a 
very  good  case  for  it!" 

"Well,  I  see  the  forlorn  beauty  in  the  shadow 
still.  .  .  .  But  change  comes  to  one  in  thunder 
claps.  I'd  like  to  tell  you  about  it  one  day.  What 
are  you  doing?  Can't  you  come  with  me?" 

"I  am  going  to-night  to  Baltimore.  But  I  have 
till  then." 

We  spent  the  remainder  of  the  day  together.  I 
went  with  him  to  see  The  Compass  and  its  far  down 
town  and  eastward-bearing  habitat.  I  divined — I 
had  divined  at  Landon — the  onward-coming,  eco 
nomic  readjustment  of  our  lives.  It  was  necessary, 
it  was  to  be!  How  soon  I  did  not  know — probably 
a  slow  change  toward  health.  But  it  must  be. 
Here,  in  the  organism,  was  anemia;  here  the  blood 
ran  so  thick  that  it  clotted.  I  looked  at  Fifth 
Avenue  in  one  hand,  and  at  this  street  in  the  other. 
.  .  .  Walter  Dupuy  was  walking  with  us.  ...  Back 
of  this  change,  back  of  all  changes  now,  was  the 
growing  sense  of  union,  essential,  organic.  That 
was  the  change's  metaphysic.  .  .  . 

Conrad  wore  his  old  elvish  look.  But  he  was  good 
sprite,  and  I  knew  it.  He  and  Walter  Dupuy  and 
many  others  fused,  welded  together.  Now  they 
seemed  Hephaestos,  smith  of  the  gods,  building 
machines  for  the  gods,  better  machines  each  age 
than  the  last.  The  figure  took  magnitude,  took 
beauty,  sublimed,  became  ethic.  It  was  economic 
lift  now  in  the  widest,  utterest  sense,  nutriment  of 
the  body,  mind,  and  spirit.  All  came  together — 
up  stood  the  Genius  filling  space  between  earth  and 

283 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

heaven.  Where  had  been  earthly  sprites,  where  had 
been  limping  Hephaestos.  .  .  .  Prometheus! 

Conrad  was  not  the  traveler  over  the  earth,  as  he 
and  we  had  seen  it  at  the  university.  I  was  not  to 
stay  at  just  the  engineering  all  then  saw  me  in. 
Miriam  did  not  rest  at  Flowerfield.  Gamaliel  did 
not  teach  at  Hilltop  Academy.  He  had  passed  from 
apprenticeship  to  mastership.  Only  yesterday  I  had 
seen  his  name  in  a  scientific  journal.  The  article 
had  spoken  with  respect  of  "Young's  discovery." 
Who  did  according  to  the  first  paper  plans?  The 
greater  seized  the  less,  the  real  destiny,  the  fancied. 

Conrad  went  with  me  to  my  train.  Crossing  the 
ferry  to  Jersey  City,  leaning  against  the  rail,  watch 
ing  the  moving  lights  in  the  water  and  above  the 
water,  feeling  the  quickening  of  the  salty  wind, 
smelling  night  and  ocean,  he  began  again  to  speak 
of  Walt  Whitman. 

I  had  a  feeling  for  Shelley,  I  had  a  feeling  for 
Whitman,  I  had  a  feeling  for  Blake,  and  for  others — 
and  for  others! 

I  listened  to  Conrad's  good  talk,  his  intellectual 
rapture.  Back  of  waking,  back  of  the  dream  rapids, 
I  felt  the  exquisite  high  air,  the  stillness  that  is 
world's  end  to  world's  end  from  stagnation! 

We  came  to  Jersey  City,  and,  leaving  the  ferry 
boat,  Conrad  and  I  parted  at  the  gates  to  the  trains. 
We  said  good-by,  but  each  meant  truly  to  keep  the 
other.  I  might  never  write  that  article  for  The 
Compass.  But  I  knew  that  that  change  in  human 
affairs  with  which  The  Compass  concerned  itself  was 
coming,  and  I  felt  little  grief  over  its  coming. 
Socialism,  communism,  had  no  terrors  for  me.  What 

284 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

was  truly  my  "property,"  truly  "proper"  to  me, 
could  not  be  taken  away.  But  aggregate  "prop 
erty"  should  be  to  the  aggregate,  to  whom  it  is 
truly  "proper."  ...  I  guessed,  indeed,  that  that 
word  "aggregate"  stopped  nowhere. 

The  train  moved  toward  Baltimore.  I  sat  and 
gazed  upon  the  shadowy,  fast-flying  landscape,  and 
at  last  I  hardly  saw  that,  but  went  deeper  and 
deeper  within.  Human  life,  the  sea  of  it ;  far-sound 
ing  voice  and  infinite  contact!  The  mean  between 
difference  and  likeness.  .  .  .  Wherever,  in  the  deeps 
of  space,  Eternal  Energy  fell  upon  a  certain  pace,  a 
certain  swing  of  the  arm,  there  was  human  life. 
All  that  was  I,  and  the  experiences  and  thoughts  of 
it.  ...  But  where  Eternal  Energy  used  Power  with 
a  wider  sweep  there  came  quickening.  The  little 
I  opened  its  gates.  A  greater  I  set  crown  upon  its 
head  and  came  through,  a  lord  of  glory.  .  .  .  All  that 
was  I,  and  the  experiences  and  thoughts  of  it. 

As  ever  yet,  illumination  could  not  hold.  It  came 
a  flash  from  above,  from  the  future,  perhaps  the  very 
far  future,  when  the  clouds  should  pass  from  be 
tween  earth  and  sun.  I  was  content  to  conceive  it 
as  from  the  future.  If  all  the  past  of  human  life  is 
mine,  it  is  impossible  but  that  all  the  future  of 
human  life  is  mine,  too. 

Wings  flagged,  eyes  dimmed,  perception  lessened. 
Yet  it  kept  somewhat  aloft,  skimming,  as  it  were, 
in  mental  space.  Now  it  had  to  do  with  liking,  with 
contemplating,  with  unharmful  entering  into  en 
vironment  and  experience  of  so-called  "others." 
Perhaps  it  sunned  itself  only  in  the  emanations, 
the  aura,  so  to  speak,  of  those  "others."  Perhaps 

285 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

there  was  deeper   sharing — I   and    I — through    af 
finity  one  I.    "Love  thy  neighbor  as  thyself." 

First  it  was  Conrad-Michael,  here  on  the  train, 
there  in  the  great  city.  .  .  .  Since  such  and  such  is 
so,  so,  too,  must  be  this  and  this.  It  is  barns  full 
of  data,  sublimated  sorting  and  reasoning,  so  swiftly 
done  that  a  thousand  acts  run  together  into  an  ap 
parent  one.  The  data  was  gathered,  the  sorting 
was  learned,  I  must  think,  through  many  an  age. 
We  have  gone  to  school  through  many  an  eon.  .  .  . 
That  problem  of  distribution  that  Conrad  and  many 
another  were  set  to  solve.  How  cosmic  was  the 
problem !  I  saw  earth  and  the  world,  and  the  trans 
figuration,  transvaluation  of  it  all,  through  the 
Conrad  window.  Work,  work,  to  keep  the  life  flow 
ing  through  the  veins.  Work,  work,  to  make  the 
place  a  little,  even  were  it  a  very  little,  juster, 
sweeter! 

Again  I  turned.  Now  it  was  Maxwell.  Maxwell 
had  to  me  the  dry  light,  the  cleanness  and  inde 
pendence  of  the  desert.  Naught  was  there  of  the 
humid,  naught  of  the  florid.  With  him  great  heat 
was  dry  and  healthful,  sparely  energetic,  rightly 
parsimonious.  How  I  finally  went,  or  where  I 
finally  went,  I  would  not  miss  out  Maxwell.  There 
moved  a  desert  spirit,  clean,  spare,  very  strong, 
tireless,  building  desert  cities,  or,  nomad,  journeying 
with  tents  or  with  no  tents.  There  were  in  the  spirit 
old  echoes  of  desert  lions,  golden-maned,  ruby-eyed; 
echoes  of  Arab  sheiks.  But  the  spirit  was  tall  as  a 
palm-tree,  and  as  it  desired  and  thought,  it  was  in 
every  desert  of  the  universe,  in  desert  cities  and  in 
all  the  oases,  and  afar  in  the  heaped  sand. 

286 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Conrad  and  Maxwell  and  others.  Others  who  to 
most  are  dead.  They  are  not  dead  and  they  are  not 
away. 

Shelley.  ...  I  entered  into  that  personality.  .  .  . 
Gone  was  the  train  and  the  flying,  inland  country. 
There  sailed  a  boat,  and  around  was  the  Mediter 
ranean,  and  around  and  above  was  air,  now  dawn, 
now  midday,  now  evening,  colored  the  higher,  rarer 
colors,  sustaining  voices  that  the  gross  ear  might 
hardly  be  strained  to  catch.  .  .  .  Water,  air,  and  fire, 
and  the  ache  for  the  lift  of  the  spirit  beyond  air — 
for  the  lift  into  ether. 

I  turned  a  little  from  that  center  and  I  met  Blake. 

In  the  fifth  act  of  the  second  "Faust,"  in  the  scene 
before  heaven,  Pater  Seraphicus  speaks  to  the 
blessed  children,  who  have  had  their  death  and  found 
their  life  young. 

"Half  unsealed  the  sense  and  brain.  .  .  . 
Enter  in  mine  eyes,  enjoy  them, 

Organs  for  the  earthy  sphere, 
As  your  own  ye  may  employ  them — 

Look  upon  the  landscape  here!" 

He  takes  them  into  himself. 

" There  are  trees,  there  rocks  defend  us! 

Here's  a  stream  that  leaps  below, 
And  with  plunges,  wild,  tremendous, 
Shorteneth  its  journey  so." 

The  orb  that  was  Blake  had  giant  and  terrible 
landscapes  indeed — but  also,  by  crystal  streamlets 
the  tenderest,  freshest,  loveliest  small  flowers! 

Goethe.  The  natural  path  leading  from  the 

287 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"Faust"  thought  brought  me  there,  too.  .  .  .  The 
world  from  the  rounded,  Goethe  nature,  from  the 
rounded  Plato  nature.  Love  and  the  union  of  love, 
and  the  sublimation  of  love,  and  the  sublimation 
of  the  union  of  love. 

The  train  clove  the  night.  There  was  moonlight, 
and  the  shadow  of  the  cars  and  of  the  plume  above 
the  engine  raced  with  us.  We  ran  into  industrial 
towns  and  out  again.  Fire  and  lamp,  gas  and  electric 
light,  ruby,  gold,  and  silver,  pointed  and  splashed 
the  night,  then  again  was  only  the  broken,  weakened 
light  tossed  to  us  from  the  moon.  I  thought  of  the 
prisons  of  the  earth,  the  hovels  and  streets  of  dis 
aster.  Assuredly  they,  too,  were  mine.  Mine  the 
criminal  and  the  sick  and  the  mad,  the  impoverished, 
the  adversity-trodden  and  the  strong  swimmer  in 
his  agony.  Mine  were  the  seer,  the  thinker,  and 
the  artist,  and  mine  the  wretched  and  the  brutal. 
I  had  the  shining  roads,  the  approaches  to  heaven, 
and  I  had  the  brute  castles  of  mistake,  and  the 
thieves'  dens  and  the  streets  of  the  prostitute.  Mine, 
too,  was  all  the  so-so  country,  the  half -lighted,  and 
mine,  too,  the  simple,  fair  stretches,  quiet  vales,  low 
hills.  Mine  the  Himalaya  peak,  and  mine  the  pit, 
and  mine  the  long  line  between.  .  .  . 

On  rushed  the  train. 

There  came  a  picture  of  the  vibratory  ether.  The 
swift  thunders  and  lightning  ate  up,  quickened,  the 
less  swift.  Ever  the  swiftness  above  swiftness  acted 
as  an  enzyme,  an  energizer.  The  dim  and  dull, 
slow  moving,  cold,  heavily  lumbering,  was  not  left 
behind — was  not  long  left  behind — in  limbo.  The 
stagnant,  the  running  the  other  way,  were  over- 

288 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

taken.  Fearful  hell  was  for  them  only  till  they 
quickened.  Through  measureless  heights  and  depths 
I  saw  continuing  transformation.  I  saw  the  rela 
tivity  of  things;  the  hells  and  pits  were  relative; 
they  lifted;  they  were  now  only  what  yesterdays 
had  held  to  be  not  unlovely  meadows,  dells,  and 
hollows.  But  the  fairer  things  were  now  dazzling. 
I  felt  an  illimitable  and  general  movement  toward 
light  that  was  as  darkness,  and  voices  or  a  voice 
that  was  as  silence,  because  as  yet  there  was  no 
organ  that  could  distinguish  things  there. 

One  approached  that  sun  not  as  fragments  of  a 
fragment.  There  must  be  some  wholeness  ere  one 
traveled  far. 

I  hold,  with  Berkeley,  that  the  world  is  truly  in 
the  mind.  Therefore,  self -quickening  is  world- 
quickening.  What  thrill  comes  is  felt  through  that 
which  we  call  God,  from  the  transcendent  I  to  the 
poorest,  meanest,  weakest  I.  The  one  increases  its 
light;  the  other,  relatively  yet  the  opposing  pole, 
is  positively  less  midnight  dark.  At  last  the  dark 
ness  comes  to  the  place  of  what  to-day  we  should 
call  light. 

I  saw  that  earth  was  to  become  sun. 


289 


CHAPTER  XXX 

MIRIAM  and  I  walked  under  fair  old  trees  in 
Druid  Hill  Park.  I  told  her  of  New  York, 
and  the  publisher,  and  the  apparent  prospect  for 
Letters  from  Africa.  We  rejoiced.  All  in  all,  we  were 
glad  to  think  that  earning  and  writing  might  with 
me  go  together.  We  did  not  delude  ourselves  with 
dreams  of  any  great  sum.  But  what  I  earned  and 
what  she  earned  might  give  us  fair  living.  We 
talked  of  dwelling  in  Baltimore,  a  pleasant  city  and 
a  rational  one  for  slender  purses.  She  also  had 
news.  Her  hospital  would  give  her  this  summer, 
welcoming  her  retxirn  in  the  autumn. 

We  set  three  days  from  this  fair  day  for  our  mar 
riage.  It  was  spring.  She  knew  a  little,  quiet,  old- 
timey  neighborhood  by  the  sea.  She  had  been  there 
three  or  four  times,  staying  always  at  Miss  Sally 
Paradise's  house.  "We'll  go  there. " 

Gamaliel  had  not  been  in  Baltimore  since  my 
coming.  Some  meeting  of  scientific  men  had  car 
ried  him  so  far  north  as  Boston.  But  he  would  be 
back,  they  told  me  this  morning  at  the  house  where 
he  lived,  within  the  week.  Miriam  and  I  agreed 
that  he  should  come  to  us  for  three  or  four  days 
at  Miss  Sally  Paradise's. 

Druid  Hill  Park  shone  and  sang. 

290 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

A  day  and  another  day  and  another.  Then,  on 
a  shining,  singing,  dancing  day  of  lovely  spring 
Miriam  and  I  married. 

We  took  a  boat,  we  came  in  a  coral,  bright  evening 
to  a  Chesapeake  Bay  wharf,  to  a  few  old  houses, 
and  back  among  blossoming  peach,  cherry,  pear, 
and  damson  trees,  to  Miss  Sally  Paradise's.  That 
was  an  old  house  of  brick,  with  echoing,  cool,  high- 
ceilinged  rooms.  The  wind  murmured  in  them  till 
it  was  like  a  sea-shell  held  up  to  catch  voices  from 
an  infinite  sequence  of  shores.  .  .  .  We  were  happy 
at  Miss  Sally  Paradise's. 

We  had  a  sailboat  and  an  ancient  mariner  sailed 
it  for  us.  The  garden  beneath  our  windows  had  an 
ancient  cultivator.  We  knew  about  gardens,  and 
we  helped  him  administer,  order,  raise  the  powers  of 
earth.  A  fair  country  road  ran  back  from  the  sea. 
We  followed  it,  and  came  to  lanes  and  paths  and 
followed  them.  Now  and  again  where  was  none  we 
made  a  path.  At  night  we  wandered  under  stars. 
We  loved  grandmother  moon,  silver,  wrinkled.  We 
loved  Mother  Earth,  colored,  genial.  We  loved  the 
world  to  come.  We  loved  each  other.  We  loved  the 
infinite,  the  eternal,  the  uncaused  in  each  other. 
Our  hearts  stood  as  one;  our  minds  as  one.  We  en 
tered  together  a  rich  reality.  We  saw  how  every 
ring  melted  into  a  larger,  and  how  there  was  no 
ending  nor  beginning,  and  how  we  had  to  grasp  both 
the  unity  and  the  difference. 

We  talked,  we  were  silent;  we  wandered  in  thought 
at  will,  and  came  back  with  our  sheaves  to  one 
another  and  a  golden,  common  barn.  Once  we  were 
sailing — slowly,  dreamlike,  for  the  wind  just  pushed 

291 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

us.  There  was  a  great,  sinking  sun,  and  a  light  upon 
water.  The  east  hung  ineffably  blue,  serene,  still, 
holding  knowledge  of  the  sun's  travel  and  a  rising 
day  out  of  ancient  sea.  Miriam  and  I  sat  still.  We 
had  with  us  a  book  of  poetry  and  it  lay  open  beside  us. 

"The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 
The  golden  years  return.  .  .  . 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  his  fountains 

Against  the  morning  star; 
Where  fairer  Tempes  loom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclades  on  a  sunnier  deep. 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize; 
Another  Orpheus  sighs  again, 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies; 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

.  .  .  Although  a  subtler  Sphinx  renew 
Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew  ..." 


Earth  and  sea  and  sky  transfigured  to  us  both. 
All  the  tragedy,  all  the  joy  and  mirth,  all  the  ro 
mance,  questing,  seeking,  searching  out,  finding, 
recovering,  all  the  lustrous  truth  that  the  strength 
of  her  and  of  me  could  hold,  brimmed  and  sounded 
and  shone.  It  tasted  and  it  touched.  A  great  voice 
was  singing.  We  fell  into  rhythm — oh!  into  a 
mighty  rhythm ! — the  boat  and  the  sea  and  the  earth 
and  the  sky  into  rhythm.  It  was  the  sun  singing, 

292 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

the  mighty  sun  that  was  sun  to  its  outermost  drop 
of  light — and  that  knew  it  was  sun  and  had  recon 
ciled  separation. 

We  had  been  ten  days  at  Miss  Sally  Paradise's 
when  Gamaliel  came  to  us  from  Baltimore.  We  met 
him  at  the  wharf  and  took  him  with  us  to  the  pleas 
ant  house,  to  his  big,  bare  room  drenched  with  sun 
light  and  the  salt  of  the  sea. 

Gamaliel  moved  or  stood,  spare  and  dark,  with 
dark,  deep-set  eyes.  He  had  unfolded  strongly.  He 
had  put  behind  him  the  childishness  of  bitterness. 
He  talked  of  Hilltop  Academy  and  of  his  father, 
quietly,  naturally,  gold  of  understanding  gleaming 
in  the  river-bed.  I  could  remember  when  his  laugh 
ter  had  been  scornful.  Sometimes  still  it  was  pained 
laughter.  But  into  it  was  stealing  patience,  humor, 
with  a  kind  of  admiration  for  the  turn  and  twist  of 
things.  He  did  not  vituperate  Hilltop  Academy 
nor  the  principal  of  it,  nor  Whitechurch  (saving 
out  always  Mr.  Gilbert),  though  he  parted  from 
them — parted  from  them  only  eventually  to  take 
them  up  into  himself  and  there  alter  and  fulfil, 
not  destroy.  He  said  once  to  me:  "After  all,  it's 
one  stuff  only,  though,  Heaven  above !  how  it  mean 
ders  ! .  .  .  Ancient  choices.  .  .  .  Well,  dive  underneath, 
and  see  what  we  can  do.  .  .  .  Come  out,  perhaps,  at 
some  other  side!" 

As  we  sailed,  as  we  walked,  we  talked  of  his  work. 
"There  lacks  some  idea — some  fourth  side — to  most 
that  we  do.  Now  and  then  we  get  wind  of  him — 
almost  see  him.  .  .  .  Then  comes  up  the  damned 
fog!  ...  But  it's  dogged  does  it!" 

293 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

We  talked  of  the  world  of  the  closing  nineteenth 
century,  and  of  that  express  train,  the  future,  rush 
ing  toward  it.  " There's  one  thing  the  world's  got 
to  give  up,  and  that  is  that  there  is  any  hard  and 
fast  line  between  anything  and  anything!  I  don't 
believe  in  impenetrability — and  our  miles  and  mo 
ments  are  of  the  doubtfulest  validity  ever!  The 
atom? — I  don't  believe  it  is  the  last  word!  Electri 
cal? — What  is  electrical?  Is  there  a  law  of  gravi 
tation?  Then,  at  a  certain  power,  comes  one  of 
levitation,  too.  .  .  .  Our  old  perception  level  is  chang 
ing.  Our  consciousness  is  changing.  Truth!  she 
has  a  new  face  each  morning — and  I  mean  nothing 
cynical  nor  despairing  by  that!'* 

We  sailed,  the  three  of  us,  under  a  high,  blue 
sky.  We  roved  the  green  country,  we  sat  at  eve 
upon  the  pillared  porch.  Miriam  had  a  good,  con 
tralto  voice,  pure,  expressive,  sweet,  with  a  kind  of 
wilderness  and  gipsy  ring.  We  found  in  the  house 
a  guitar.  She  sang  the  old-time  cherished  songs, 
songs  of  the  negroes  in  the  field,  ballads,  hymns  of 
the  traveler  soul.  Sometimes  we  talked,  sometimes 
we  sat  in  deep  silence,  having  darted,  each  of  us, 
afar.  We  darted  each  afar,  and  the  middle  sea  of 
harmony  continually  widened,  richened. 

What  had  been  hard  or  resistive  in  Gamaliel,  the 
quality  of  the  father,  what  had  been  bitter,  what  had 
been  envious,  was  turning.  What  had  been  felt  from 
the  first,  what  was  also  in  the  father — fiber,  grit, 
indomitableness — was  there  more  strongly.  With 
these  was  now  uncovered  a  partly  grim,  partly 
humorous,  partly  compassionate  approach  to  an 
understanding  of  the  inadequacies,  discomforts,  dan- 

294 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

gers,  even,  of  the  inns  of  the  road — of  the  heartaches, 
the  beaten  brains.  He  was  riding  to  break  the  ring, 
riding  to  fetch  sunlight  for  the  old  cracks  and 
crevices.  He  was  determined  toward  that,  deter 
mined  as  Conrad,  as  others  that  I  knew,  many  others, 
as  Miriam  and  me. 

In  our  school-days  we  had  greatly  liked  each 
other's  company.  This  in  no  wise  changed.  There 
was  always  with  Gamaliel  and  me  an  intuitive, 
inner  handclasp.  Now  Miriam  and  he  liked  also. 
Through  great  countries  we  kept  step,  we  three. 
And  with  a  strange,  rich  fitness,  there  seemed  to 
walk  with  us,  out  of  all  others,  Madam  Black — • 
Madam  Black  and  my  mother  and,  I  think, 
Maxwell. 

He  returned  after  five  days  to  Baltimore,  but 
Miriam  and  I  stayed  another  week.  We  walked  by 
the  shore,  we  loved,  we  lived,  we  knew!  From 
plane  to  plane  we  felt  the  fire  shoot.  We  traveled 
from  affinity  to  affinity;  we  held  them  together  in 
the  beautiful  spectrum,  we  ran  into  the  color  of 
light,  we  broke  on  the  other  side  into  new  iridescence. 
We  wished,  we  willed  forever  to  cast  the  magic 
net  in  the  upper  seas,  to  radiate,  to  gather  our  own, 
to  give  bloom,  sonorousness,  giving  beauty,  recover 
ing  beauty  .  .  .  growing  wise,  lit  with  wisdom. 
Wisdom  was  our  word  of  aspiration.  Wisdom  was 
love  and  knowledge  made  one,  and  power  was  the 
child.  We  wished  and  willed  to  keep  the  great  com 
mandment,  and  the  second  that  was  like  unto  it — 
ever  better  to  keep.  .  .  . 

In  mid-May  we  went  to  Flowerfield.  Uncle  John 
and  Aunt  Kate  welcomed  us,  forgiving  the  marriage 

295 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

away  from  the  old  place  and  way.  John  and  Amy 
Page,  living  now  at  Flowerfield,  welcomed  us,  and 
Catherine  and  Lewis,  and  all  the  colored  folk,  and 
the  animals  who  remembered.  The  neighborhood 
came  to  see  us,  and  we  returned  its  visits.  There 
spread  around  the  loveliness  of  full  spring. 

After  a  month  at  Flowerfield  John  and  Amy, 
Miriam  and  I,  went  to  Restwell.  As  we  came  in 
sight  of  the  river  Ahasuerus  was  in  my  mind.  The 
spirit  in  me  touched  him  somewhere,  strong  and 
growing,  companying  with  Daddy  Guinea.  .  .  . 
Mammy,  too,  had  died. 

Aunt  Sarah,  at  Restwell,  was  both  changed  and 
not  changed.  More  of  inner  light  had  come  through, 
more  warmth  and  strength.  Aunt  Harriet  and 
General  Warringer  stood  and  moved,  hospitable, 
gracious,  really  fond  of  us.  There  was  talking  and 
laughing;  many  persons  went  in  and  out  of  the 
house.  Aunt  Harriet  and  I  walked  once  or  twice 
together.  One  day  for  a  while  she  had  been  quiet, 
thoughtful.  Suddenly  she  said:  "I  used  to  think 
Miriam  was  an  ugly  duckling — but  she's  not!  She's 
beautiful.  Some  day,  when  there's  time,  Michael, 
I'd  like,  too,  to  grow  like  that — •" 

General  Warringer  talked  much  of  politics  and 
industrial  growth,  and  the  country's  future.  "Of 
course  all  these  'booms' — a  'boom'  wherever 
you  can  shake  a  stick — won't  last!  But  they're 
bands  at  the  head  of  the  procession.  We're  going 
to  have  wealth  and  power!  That  is,  the  people  who 
are  wise  enough  to  get  in  the  wagon  are  going  to 
have  wealth  and  power!" 

"And  the  others?" 

296 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"Well,  I  tell  you,  Michael — like  the  lazy  every 
where,  they'll  have  to  take  the  leavings!  That's  a 
law  of  nature." 

Carter,  who  had  married  Mary  Grimes,  was  with 
his  wife  at  the  White  Sulphur.  But  Royal  came  to 
Restwell  from  New  York  for  a  week. 

He  was  still  so  paintable — more  paintable  than 
ever !  He  was  large,  he  looked  neither  old  nor  young ; 
if,  on  the  one  side,  he  could  have  been  used  for 
Mammon  or  a  Roman  emperor,  on  another  side  he 
stood  for  patient,  massive  adaptation,  eagle  eyes 
and  wings.  He  looked  here  like  an  eleventh-century 
alchemist,  like  a  Chaldean,  Egyptian  watcher  of 
the  stars.  Perhaps  he  watched  them  to  use  them 
for  black  magic — perhaps  he  did  not  know  what 
he  did,  but  was  compounded  out  of  black  and 
white,  and  acted  with  a  dreamy  strength,  fatal, 
automatic. 

I  watched  him.  He  had  a  dragon  power  to  draw 
me.  I  could  not  understand  him  and  not  be  him. 
Miriam  watched  me  watch  him.  Once  she  turned 
to  me  in  that  inner  movement  and  speech  which  we 
used.  "Take  care!  He's  us,  his  ill  and  his  good! 
Don't  let  him  draw  too  hard.  Give  toward  him, 
as  you  take  from  him!" 

Dorothea.  .  .  .  Miriam  knew  here,  too.  .  .  .  Doro 
thea,  Miriam,  Royal,  and  I!  If  we  lived  with  Vera 
Black,  with  Mannheim,  with  Maxwell,  Conrad, 
Gamaliel — if  we  lived  with  others — we  lived  with 
Dorothea  and  Royal,  too.  "Do  I  understand  Doro 
thea?  Are  we  not  sisters  and  more  than  sisters? 
Here  and  here  and  here  I  meet  her,"  said  Miriam, 
"and  she  meets  me.  The  waters  flowing  together 

297 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

must  acknowledge  their  own  waves.  I  am  her  sea 
as  she  is  mine." 

We  knew  that,  and  we  knew  that  all  that  is  in 
us — all  that  is  us — must  lift  and  lift  .  .  .  that  is, 
that  everywhere  the  one  mass  must  lift  ...  as  it  is 
lifting! 

We  went  to  Whitechurch;  we  embraced  in  the 
gold  of  the  summer  all  there.  We  went  to  see  the 
Millwoods,  the  Millwoods  came  to  see  us. 

Mr.  Millwood  sat  with  me  one  evening  on  the 
porch.  The  others  were  walking  to  and  fro  in  the 
bright  dusk  and  perfume,  with  Vesper  shining  above 
the  hills.  He  said,  after  a  pause,  "Have  you  found 
Christ,  Michael?'* 

I  thought  how  best  to  answer  him.  At  last  I 
said :  " Have  I  come  to  Risen  Man?  I  draw  there,  I 
hope  and  I  believe,  at  least  a  first,  fluttering  breath. 
Risen  Man  hasn't  drunk  up  yet  all  the  night  dews. 
But  Christ  in  me — me-Christ — lights  up  all  the 
horizon.  The  sun  out  of  the  sea.  .  .  .  The  manger- 
babe,  weak  yet  in  its  swaddling  clothes,  laid  where 
the  grain  and  the  dried  grass  have  been,  where  ani 
mals  have  fed,  where  human  forms  bend  and  move 
about  it  ...  and  the  star  that  is  its  forehead  above 
the  roof.  .  .  .  They  are  all  great  symbols !  Man  that 
is  beyond  men — Man  that  is  the  container  of  men. 
...  I  believe  that  Christ  which  is  Enlightenment  is 
born  in  me." 

"Ha!"  said  Mr.  Millwood,  and  moved  impatiently. 
"In  the  plain  prose  of  the  Bible,  do  you  believe  that 
Jesus  of  Nazareth  who  was  crucified  by  the  Jews 
and  Pontius  Pilate  is  your  Lord  and  Saviour?" 

"One  reads  the  Bible  in  one  way,  one  in  another — " 

298 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Mr.  Millwood  struck  the  porch  floor  with  his  large 
foot.  "There  you  go — just  like  your  grandfather!" 
He  spoke  with  a  kind  of  peevishness.  "I  knew  that 
you  were  still  wandering  when  I  heard  that  you  had 
not  been  married  in  a  church!" 

But  I  liked  him,  and  I  knew  that  he  did  duties 
that  belonged  to  the  way  of  the  Risen  Man.  In  a 
moment  he  was  more  genuinely  an  old,  kind  heart. 
Aunt  Harriet  approached,  and  residence  and  pro 
fession  and  details  of  Miriam's  and  my  household 
life  to  be  came  to  the  fore  in  their  old  warm  cloak. 

I  saw  Doctor  Young  on  his  hilltop,  in  his  chill, 
northerly-bearing  study,  where  fire  flickering  on  the 
hearth  above  ashes  caught  at  this  unburned  frag 
ment  and  at  that.  I  longed  somehow  to  heap  the 
fire  and  warm  the  place.  He  was  solitary,  and  he 
gathered  his  solitariness  about  him  and  dwelt  with 
it,  forlornly  proud.  I  so  strongly  saw  Gamaliel 
in  him,  him  in  Gamaliel — and  yet  Gamaliel  gone 
forth,  gone  on  ...  and  yet  Anchises  on  the  younger 
man's  shoulders.  Sinbad-  the  old  man  of  the 
sea;  Anchises-^Eneas — desperately,  hopefully,  one! 
.  .  .  What  war  in  the  members  of  one  being  was 
here — and  yet  somewhere  what  agreement ! 

We  visited  Mr.  Gilbert  in  his  most  cool,  most 
quiet  place  of  business,  with  the  shadow  of  broad 
leaves  almost  covering  the  pavement,  with  the 
tinkling  bell,  and  the  deep  compounded  aroma  of 
many  a  land. 

The  days  ran  by,  swift,  effective,  graceful,  strong. 
Days  at  Flowerfield — at  Restwell — again  at  Flower- 
field.  Autumn  came.  When  the  color  of  October  was 
over  the  land  Miriam  and  I  went  home  to  Baltimore. 

299 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

We  found  a  small  house  in  a  street  just  by  Miriam's 
hospital.  We  furnished  it  simply  and  barely,  but 
with  what,  according  to  our  notions,  had  worth  and 
beauty.  Friends  helped.  There  came  to  us  from 
Flowerfield  Dacia,  who  was  as  good  a  cook  and 
marketer  and  cleaner  as  might  be  found — all  that 
and  a  few  things  besides.  We  entered  into  a  fragrant 
home  life — home  and  fragrant,  for  all  that  both 
man  and  woman  made  contacts  and  worked  in  what 
is  called  the  outside  world. 

In  October  was  published  Letters  from  Africa.  It 
was  fortunate  in  its  appeal  to  a  few  men  whose 
names  counted.  It  grew  to  a  certain  success.  This 
winter  I  wrote  the  African  Dream,  and  it  was  pub 
lished  the  following  autumn. 

I  was  at  work  upon  The  Branch  of  Coral,  and  we 
had  lived  with  Dacia  almost  two  years  in  the  small 
house  by  the  hospital,  when  there  came  an  offer  to 
Miriam  from  New  York.  There  was  a  chance  to 
reconstruct,  to  build  fairer  a  great  organ  of  useful 
ness.  She  had  in  Baltimore  the  trained  comrade 
who  might  take  over  her  work.  She  accepted  the 
widening  field,  and  we  went  from  Baltimore  to  the 
huger  city.  It  had  drawn  Gamaliel  the  year  before, 
to  a  chair  in  a  great  school.  When  we  went  we  were 
thirty-two,  Miriam  and  I,  for  I  was  born  in  March 
and  she  in  October  of  the  same  year. 


300 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

SEVEN  years  passed  over  us.  It  was  nine  years 
since  Miriam  and  I  had  made  our  home  together. 
Many  things  were  done  in  the  world.  Many  rudi 
ments  pushed  upward,  many  vestiges  tended  de 
cisively  toward  the  Button  Molder's  caldron — 
not,  in  the  long,  long  run,  a  hopeless  place.  Other 
vestiges  received  a  temporary  strengthening,  other 
rudiments  a  temporary  weighting  down,  dungeoning. 
But  on  the  whole  and  for  the  whole,  assuredly, 
naturally,  completer  life  gained. 

The  Spanish  War  blew  up,  thundered  through  a 
spring  and  summer,  and  sank  into  silence,  where  its 
consequences  worked  on.  The  nineteenth  century 
passed  into  the  twentieth  century.  McKinley  lived 
in  the  White  House.  Colonel  Roosevelt  was  making 
his  legend  with  might  and  main.  One  evening  I 
had  gone  to  see,  at  his  hotel,  an  Italian  painter  who 
had  brought  me  a  letter  from  Ferraro.  I  found  him 
with  a  group  of  others,  viewing  from  a  gallery  the 
annual  dinner  of  an  important  society.  There  had 
arrived  the  moment  of  speeches.  A  general  and  an 
admiral  spoke,  a  senator  spoke,  and  I  remember 
not  whom  besides.  But  the  last  speaker,  a  better 
speaker  than  most  who  had  gone  before,  was  a 
teacher,  a  man  named  Woodrow  Wilson. 

301 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

In  these  days  many  were  sensible  of  a  change  in 
all  the  atmospheres.  Throughout  America,  pre 
sumably  throughout  the  world,  a  subtle  alteration; 
a  physical,  moral,  psychical,  mental,  spiritual  change 
might  be  perceived  by  all  who  were  attuned  to  note 
it.  The  century  came  in  with  a  sense  of  liquid  dawn. 
Many  did  not  feel  it,  too  closely  held  in  Egypt.  But 
to  many  there  seemed  in  the  air  the  virginal  freshness 
of  a  promised  land. 

The  earth  turned,  full  of  promise.  Regarding  the 
conflicting  forces,  the  reluctant  mother,  the  pangs 
of  birth,  the  ancient  strong  titans,  the  young  gods, 
there  might  have  been  foreseen,  perhaps  dimly  was 
foreseen,  war  yet  in  many  shapes,  huge  war.  But 
there  lived  a  feeling  that  those  who  warred  were 
coming  over,  that  the  center  of  gravity  was  changed 
and  would  draw  all  men.  Conrad  said  it  was  the 
Rousseau  period  before  the  Revolutionary  crash. 
I  in  some  sort  agreed  with  him.  Change  of  char 
acter  doubtless  was  apt  to  exhibit  halcyon  premoni 
tory  light,  followed  by  downcrash,  pangs  of  dissolu 
tion,  tragic  bewilderment!  Then  might  rise  the 
great  apparition,  the  new  order  clear  of  the  fallen 
old,  for  a  long  time  wreathed  yet  with  torn  cloud 
and  mist  of  the  old.  The  character  ever  changed, 
building  up  and  building  up,  so  that  the  god  of  to 
day  was  to-morrow's  titan,  and  to-morrow  yet  a 
younger,  diviner  Olympian !  .  .  .  I  saw,  then,  revolu 
tion  approaching.  But  my  revolution — and  Con 
rad's  revolution,  too — had  not  to  do  with  blind  and 
deaf  and  powerless  war.  .  .  . 

The  twentieth  century  rose,  then,  with  a  sense  of 
dawn. 

302 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Miriam  and  I  lived  in  an  unfashionable  quarter, 
in  a  rather  ancient,  rather  large,  rather  good  house 
there.  Gamaliel  lived  with  us,  and  Wythe  the  en 
graver,  and  Mrs.  Lobb  the  old  actress.  And  there 
were  Dugald  and  Kate,  the  two  children  whom 
Miriam  and  I  had  taken  from  an  orphanage  and 
made  our  own.  Besides  Dacia  we  had  Martin  and 
Mary  to  take  household  care  of  us,  and  Norah  for 
the  children.  Each  winter  Catherine  came  for  a 
month,  and  there  were  other  visitors.  Usually  there 
was  a  guest  in  the  house.  Conrad  and  his  wife 
Geralda  lived  in  the  next  street. 

Miriam's  was  become  a  known  name  through  much 
of  the  United  States.  Hers  was  the  administrator's 
genius.  She  could  patiently  disentangle  the  confused 
strands,  firmly  hold  the  skein,  wind  off  with  light, 
exquisite  touch  the  ball  for  use,  and  see  that  it  was 
truly  used.  Mrs.  Sayre,  at  Landon,  came  into  mind. 
She  had  had  the  same  faculty,  though  not  yet  lifted 
and  widened  as  was  Miriam's.  Miriam  worked  for 
the  people  through  institutions  and  through  move 
ments.  She  worked  with  heart  and  head.  Her  pen 
wrote,  her  voice  spoke.  Her  papers,  scattered  here 
and  there  through  journals  of  sociology  and  where 
not,  may  one  day  be  gathered  together.  She  was  an 
able  and  a  winning  speaker.  Everywhere  she  used 
the  moment  as  best  she  could,  and  everywhere  she 
regarded  and  drew  breath  in  the  future.  So  she 
worked  and  so  she  earned,  and  above  all  the  objec 
tive  activity,  raying  down  into  the  objective,  went 
on  an  intense  and  wide  upward  living  and  earning. 
In  our  house  she  was  frank  and  kind  and  true  and 
wise,  with  her  gipsy  tang  as  of  some  wild,  most  good, 

303 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

most  aromatic  herb.  Dugald  and  Kate  loved  her 
dearly,  as  she  loved  them.  Out  of  the  house,  or  of 
houses  like  it,  she  often  met,  as  I  often  met,  a  dire 
opposition.  We  knew  that  it  was  dire  because  it 
was  our  opposition,  through  deep  time  and  wide 
place  made  by  ourselves.  We  met  it,  let  it  roar 
over  and  around  us,  converted,  each  time,  what  we 
could  of  the  tempest.  .  .  .  We  had  made  it  and  we 
must  alter 'it. 

My  own  work  whereby  I  earned  lay  now  in  the 
written  drama.  Occasionally,  and  of  late  years  with 
increasing  frequency,  a  piece  of  it  reached  the 
theater,  where  it  had  a  longer  or  shorter  playing. 
Displeased  critics  called  it  "impracticable  meta- 
physic,  barely  playable."  Pleased  critics — they  were 
by  no  means  so  many — said  that  to-day's  meta- 
physic  becomes  to-morrow's  physics,  and  that  it 
was  increasingly  playable.  There  was  enough  audi 
ence  to  justify  the  staging,  and  the  published  vol 
umes  found  their  readers.  These  were  the  years 
when  I  wrote  Out  and  Away — The  Two  Inns — Color 
and  Another  Color — Who  Cried? — The  Blessed  House 
—Mr.  X. 

I  worked  hard.  I  knew  many  people  and  many 
lines  of  life.  I  had  all  manner  of  contacts  and 
insights. 

We  went  in  summer  to  Flowerfield.  To  Dugald 
and  Kate  that  was  Paradise. . .  .  The  circle  at  Flower- 
field  stayed  unbroken.  Each  year  Aunt  Sarah  came 
there  from  Restwell  for  a  month.  Her  body  was 
growing  old,  but  she  herself,  Miriam  and  I  thought, 
had  new  freshness,  serenity,  and  bloom.  She  told 
me  that  she  had  found  her  lover.  "But  not  in  the 

304 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

old  'here,'  Michael — and  there  is  much  more  of 
him  than  I  had  guessed.  More  of  him  and  more  of 
me.  'Being  together'  is  life  and  the  background 
of  life." 

Each  summer  Miriam  and  I  spent  a  fortnight  at 
Restwell.  Occasionally,  but  not  often,  Royal  was 
there.  He  was  now  a  rich  man,  creator  of  a  huge 
monopoly,  at  home  in  many  boards.  He  had  mar 
ried  wealth.  He  and  his  wife  had  a  great  house  upon 
Fifth  Avenue.  There  were  children.  He  gave 
largely,  he  collected  paintings.  His  especial  liking 
was  for  illuminated  missals.  His  own  living  was 
spare,  healthfully  abstemious.  As  ever,  he  was  a  sub 
ject  for  a  great  artist.  His  eyes  looked  out  of  dream 
capitals,  from  dream  thrones — 

Dorothea  had  not  married.  She  traveled  now;  she 
went  here  and  there  over  the  earth.  But  now  and 
then  we  found  her  at  Restwell.  She  looked  at  me 
with  her  enigmatical  face.  It  seemed  to  say,  "I 
like  you  and  I  like  you  not."  And  I,  too,  could  have 
said  in  my  turn,  "I  like  you  and  I  like  you  not." 
But  Miriam  went  steadily  out  to  Dorothea.  I  have 
seen  the  two  dim  forms  at  twilight,  moving  in  the 
orchard  or  seated  under  the  great  oak. 

There  rest  deeps  and  deeps,  inmosts  and  inmosts, 
yet  to  find. 

Miriam  and  I  worked  hard  and  constantly.  Much 
was  to  be  done  in  the  plain,  apparent,  known  dimen 
sions.  We,  too,  with  all  our  kind,  were  household 
ers.  We,  too,  recapitulated,  drew  out  the  essences, 
learned  to  manage  a  little  better  and  a  little  bet 
ter  yet,  daily  living.  We  were  not  immoderates; 
we  had  a  loving-kindness  for  daily  living.  When 

305 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

the  fleeting  is  known  to  be  fleeting  it  can  be  well 
enjoyed ! 

As  best  we  knew  how  we  did  what  our  hand  found 
to  do.  We  were  not  out  of  the  plane  of  physical 
needs,  neither  we  nor  ours.  We  worked  as  others 
worked,  for  food  and  shelter.  If  we  bent  ourselves 
to  put  wisdom  in  this  very  getting — if  we  saw,  now 
less  clearly,  now  more  clearly,  other  food  and  shelter 
— yet  must  we  work  where  we  were  with  so  great 
part  of  our  consciousness!  Even  in  the  summer 
when  we  went  to  Flower-field  we  worked  still,  study 
ing,  planning,  writing.  We  found  that  to  do  one 
thing  was  to  do  many  things. 

In  these  years  something  in  us  of  upper  lands 
measurably  rested  from  further  beckoning,  further 
climbing. 

Yet  there  was  inner  action,  and  that  of  an  in 
tensity.  .  .  .  Levels  and  levels  below  must  somehow 
be  worked  out,  and  their  life  come  up  to  reinforce 
before  the  journeyer  might  move  on.  Strength  had 
to  go  and  did  go  to  disintegrating  ancient  bars  and 
reefs.  .  .  .  That  principle  of  sensibility  which  I  felt 
in  myself,  that  permeativeness,  pervasion  of  time 
and  space,  touch  afar  and  near,  worked  for  a  long 
time  obscurely,  in  darkened  chambers.  Herakles,  I 
knew,  had  his  own  Hades  to  visit,  his  own  stable 
to  clean,  and  both  were  vast  enough  to  make  for 
a  weary,  long  job!  At  times  Herakles  inclined  to 
think  there  was  naught  besides  Hades,  naught  besides 
stable,  naught  besides  hydra,  bear,  lion.  Even,  once 
and  again,  Herakles  trembled  toward  contentment 
with,  identification  with,  rest  with,  the  monsters 
and  the  dismal  places  and  the  squalor. 

306 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

He  trembled  toward  it,  then  he  stood  still  and 
took  thought,  then,  dimly,  dimly,  he  saw  again  the 
star  above  the  murk  and  turned  and  took  up  his 
task. 

Outer  life  and  its  thousand  cries  I  knew  and  must 
respond  to.  But  the  inner  life  saw  the  fight,  the 
crusade,  the  quest,  intense,  intense.  .  .  .  What  I  say 
of  Michael  applies  also  to  Miriam. 

There  came  sense  of  another  turning,  breaths  of 
dawn. 

The  twentieth  century  was  born.  We  felt  a 
trembling,  trembling  together  of  mankind.  We 
said,  ''She  begins  to  be  conscious — Humanity!" 
Many  were  saying  it,  many  scattered  through  the 
earth. 

Miriam  and  I  stood  at  thirty-eight.  Dugald  and 
Kate  were  our  children.  They  were  nine-year-olds, 
a  happy  pair  with  health  and  good  minds.  Miriam 
and  I  had  friends.  We  had  what  the  world  calls 
name  and  place.  We  were  not  rich,  but  we  were  not 
at  all  grindingly  poor.  .  .  .  The  spirit  went  on.  The 
spirit  cried  to  itself,  "Awake — awake!" 

I  had  finished  the  play,  "Catch  and  Catch  Again." 
Y.,  the  actor,  had  it — a  subtle,  good  actor.  He  and 
the  play  made  an  entry  into  public  liking.  One  of 
the  consequences  of  this  was  the  arrival  of  some 
means  wherewith  to  travel. 

Miriam,  too,  had  made  end  of  a  train  of  work  and 
there  was  breathing-space  before  another  tangled 
skein  should  lie  in  her  hands.  She  and  I  took  holi 
day.  We  left  the  children  and  Norah  at  Flowerfield 
and  for  two  months  went  wandering  over  the  Western 
slopes  of  this  country. 

307 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

At  last,  one  day,  we  stood  upon  the  Pacific  shore. 
We  gazed  in  silence,  the  wind  murmuring  about  us, 
stirring  the  sere  grass  above  the  sand.  We  went  afar 
in  thought  and  touch,  through  and  over  the  waves. 
A  power  that  had  somewhat  drowsed  away  awoke 
in  us  quick  and  strong.  ' '  I  go  forth  like  a  blue  cloud !' ' 
said  Miriam.  I  nodded.  It  seemed  to  us  that  we 
were  that  ocean  and  all  within  it,  and  the  ships 
that  sailed  it,  and  the  islands  that  rose  from  it,  and 
their  peoples,  and  the  farther  shores,  and  all  the 
Penelope  web  of  interrelations,  woven,  unwoven, 
woven  anew!  "Seems!  ...  7  know  not  'seems.'" 

Dimly  we  felt  the  Malay  moving,  faintly  we  made 
sail  with  seamen  brown  and  yellow  and  white. 
Miriam  sank  upon  the  sand.  We  rested  against  a 
dune.  The  sea  wind  went  over  us,  in  the  long 
grass.  ...  In  her  first,  then  in  me,  in  us  both,  arose 
the  barn  at  Flowerfield.  It  is  raining;  we  are  chil 
dren  telling  stories  in  our  burrow  in  the  hay.  John 
cuts  his  round  checkers  out  of  his  piece  of  cedar. 
The  barn-swallows  flit  by.  We  are  telling  stories 
there,  and  we  sit  here  by  the  Pacific  Ocean.  Coil 
within  coil,  the  Fisherman  and  the  Genie  rise  about 
us,  in  an  Araby  that  likewise  has  room.  The  Fisher 
man  having  the  clue  to  wealth  goes  fishing  and  takes 
four  fish — white,  red,  blue,  and  yellow. 

Miriam  spoke  and  her  voice  was  made  out  of  all 
the  voices  of  the  sea.  She  swayed  with  a  movement 
like  the  movement  of  the  sea. 

"Mussulman,  Par  see,  Christian,  Jew — " 

Her  voice  sank.  The  barn  and  the  children  there 
drew  back.  .  .  .  The  Pacific  sea,  the  ships  and  the 
islands,  Japan,  China,  India — 

308 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

* '  They  are  all  in  our  limbs, ' '  she  said.  ' '  I  feel  them ! 
The  film  goes  over  the  universe." 

A  month  from  this  day  we  were  in  the  mesa  land 
of  Arizona.  A  friend  of  Miriam's  lived  here  upon  a 
small  ranch  with  a  brother  who  must  have  the  dry 
sunshine.  We  stayed  a  week  with  them.  It  was 
a  lonely,  silver-gray  spot,  depending  for  beauty  upon 
space  and  light.  Hardly  anywhere  else  have  I  seen 
such  a  canopy  of  stars  at  night.  The  earth  tasted, 
smelled,  very  lonely,  wild,  to  itself.  If  one  liked  it 
not  he  hurried  or  tried  to  hurry  away;  if  one  liked 
it  he  might  like  it  mightily.  There  was  room  for 
thinking,  and  the  inner  life  might  come  out  upon 
the  door-step.  The  sister  and  brother,  Miriam  and  I, 
rode,  and  in  the  evenings  talked  beside  a  crackling 
fire.  And  in  the  mornings,  when  the  other  two  were 
busy,  Miriam  and  I  wandered  upon  the  mesa. 

Here  one  day  we  sat,  without  speaking,  in  the 
deep  light.  At  last  she  broke  the  silence.  ''I  feel 
that  something  that  has  been  still  a  long  time  is 
moving  on  again!  It  was  still  to  serve  purposes, 
and  it  moves  on  to  serve  purposes." 

"I  understand,"  I  answered.    "I  feel  that." 

"We  have  worked  hard.  Doubtless  we  shall 
keep  on  working.  But  some  land  is  drawing  stronger 
and  stronger!  Work  there  isn't  iust  like  work  here." 

"No." 

We  walked  again,  then  rested  again.  The  earth 
lay  wide  and  clear,  lifted,  still,  and  sunny.  I  spoke : 
"You  and  I  have  all  along  been  developing  powers. 
Now  and  again  we  have  vibrated  more  swiftly, 
or  we  have  entered  greater  vortexes,  or  we  have 
felt  a  zephyr  torch  from  super-consciousness,  or  we 

309 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

have  known,  as  in  a  mist,  the  touch  of  godhood. 
The  terminology  doesn't  so  much  matter!  Bio 
logically  speaking,  a  new  center  of  consciousness, 
another  sense,  is  in  process  of  development.  When 
we  have  it  fully  many  things  will  be  self -explained. 
When  it  is  developed  in  a  sufficient  number  of  the 
species,  there  will  be  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth. 
As  Mr.  X  would  say,  'It  is  very  simple.'  .  .  .  Perhaps 
it  is,  but  the  effect  is  still  a  very  wonder!" 

"A  marvel,  a  beauty,  an  awful,  glorious  sea." 

"Each  time,  in  all  our  life,  that  we  have  left  the 
accustomed  plane  to  go  higher  rests  in  memory, 
grapes  from  Eshcol !  There  is  a  humbling  sense  that 
those  times  have  been  few.  All  the  same,  they  have 
made  a  standard  of  comparison.  There  is  a  longing 
for  reunion,  homesickness  for  Trueself.  .  .  .  More 
realness — more  realness — on  the  way  to  Reality!" 

''So!"  she  said.  "Well,  I  feel  that  we  start  up 
from  the  camp-fire  and  move  on!" 

But  our  days  in  Arizona,  breathing,  alert,  silver- 
gold  as  they  were — and  our  journey  across  the 
continent,  filled,  as  it  was,  with  mind-zest — and  our 
homecoming  that  glowed  and  crooned  as  it  always 
did — and  the  uptaking  of  familiar  work,  hardly 
carried  the  acute  and  actual  perception  of  a  camp- 
fire  left  and  a  frontier  crossed.  And  yet  I,  with 
Miriam,  felt  a  premonition,  felt  hands  upon  the 
tent-pegs ! 


310 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

I  WAS  writing  in  the  study.  Now  I  sat  at  the  desk, 
and  now  I  walked  to  and  fro.  I  was  at  work  upon 
Aldebaran.  It  struck  eleven.  The  house  stood  quite 
quiet,  above  and  below.  Some  work  that  she  was 
doing  had  taken  Miriam  farther  north  for  a  week. 
It  was  late.  Standing  at  the  window,  I  saw  only 
quiet  night,  dark  houses.  The  feet  of  some  passer-by 
rang  loud  on  the  pavement.  A  train  passed  on  the 
"L,"  a  block  away. 

Work  had  gone  to-night  nor  well  nor  badly.  I 
had  finished  a  scene,  but  knew  that  to-morrow  I 
must  make  much  of  it  over.  I  laid  work  by  and 
turned  toward  the  book-shelves.  .  .  . 

Light  seemed  in  my  brain — light!  The  room,  the 
old  earth,  all  trains  and  loops  and  garlands  and 
nooses  of  phenomena  vanished.  There  was  light 
in  excelsis.  There  was  no  form,  as  old  form  is  con 
ceived,  but  there  was  control.  There  was  no  labor 
of  motion,  but  there  was  thrill.  There  was  not 
change  as  change  here  is  conceived,  but  I  think 
there  was  change.  Only  it  was  so  vast.  .  . .  The  sense 
was  of  power  and  infinite  experience,  of  wisdom  and 
of  floods  of  balm.  In  the  midst  of  the  balm  there  was 
fiber,  activity,  mind,  and  all  in  a  time  and  space 
into  which  our  time  and  space  melted,  raindrops 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

into  sea!  I  have  said  that  there  was  no  form,  but 
there  was  a  sense  that  some  supreme  effort  of  per 
ception  might  reveal  form,  though  of  a  magnitude 
and  contour! — The  feeling  was  that  what  yesterday 
had  been  a  collectivity — diffused,  planetary  life — 
was  become,  in  a  flash  that  tore  the  heavens  and 
rolled  them  away,  a  self-conscious,  a  living  Spirit. 
The  Earth  became  a  Spirit  with  a  vesture.  And  that 
was  I — I  was  That.  And  all  history  and  all  experi 
ence  and  all  "otherness"  was  but  the  honey  in  that 
hive!  And  the  hive  was  conscious  as  a  man  is  con 
scious.  .  .  .  There  came  another  flash — core-light, 
core-voice.  .  .  .  Still,  still,  there  were  other  forms, 
there  were  companion  planets!  .  .  .  There  came  a 
climax.  I  knew  the  great  dominant  whom  the  old 
congeries,  in  the  old  time,  named  "The  Sun"  .  .  . 
Light,  light,  light! 

The  intensity  of  experience  lessened.  The  great 
thing,  in  all  its  scope,  paled,  entered  memory. 

But  out  of  lower  space  and  out  of  lower  time,  and 
out  of  lower  form,  stayed  the  sense  of  goal.  I  knew 
the  pilgrims  and  the  pilgrimage,  the  task,  the  quest, 
the  America  over  the  waves,  the  Grail,  the  immortal 
adventure,  eternal  romance — 

And  Miriam,  that  was  the  spirit  most  near,  most 
dear  to  me?  Before  twenty-four  hours  had  passed 
there  came  a  letter  from  her. 

MICHAEL:  Last  night,  about  midnight,  my  soul  sprang  for 
ward  with  a  certain  burning  quality.  There  was  great  light, 
and  in  an  inner  firmament  I  saw  the  sun  that  we  are. — MIRIAM. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

MIRIAM  and  I  made  nucleus  of  that  moment. 
To  it,  through  inner  space  came,  drawn,  all  of 
its  slightest  kindred.  All  intimations,  intuitions, 
all  experience  of  planes  that  were  not  of  every-day, 
every  flavor  of  Self  that  understood  and  transcended 
the  old  self,  every  piece  of  delimitation,  every  re 
moval  of  inhibition,  every  positive  approach  to  new 
power  that  we  had  known  came  into  that  light  and 
certitude.  We  had  centered,  we  had  the  point  of 
view.  That  which  was  now  our  part  was,  with  ever- 
increasing  fullness,  to  be,  to  know,  to  enjoy,  to  act 
from  that  center. 

Certain  things  emerged,  could  be  handled  and 
looked  at  without  shock  and  dazzling. 

There  existed  a  consciousness  surpassing  old  levels 
that  we  had  known.  Mankind  was  tending  toward 
this  consciousness.  As  man's  consciousness  was 
larger  than  the  animal's,  so  was  this  larger  than 
the  old  human.  As  each  higher  dimension  holds 
and  surpasses  the  dimensions  below  it,  so  this  con 
sciousness  would  contain  and  surpass  all  the  old, 
fainter,  slower  rates.  The  point  goes  on  reproduc 
ing  and  reproducing  itself,  establishing  memory, 
growing  a  sense  of  relation.  One  day  it  is  capable 
of  an  electric  flash,  a  communication,  a  filling  out  I 
Oneness  is  born  again.  Point  becomes  line.  There 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

is  perception,  action,  knowledge,  enjoyment,  in  the 
greater  universe  of  the  line.  The  line,  now  the  unit, 
in  its  turn  reproduces  itself,  acting  right  and  left. 
Line  memory  appears,  relation  among  lines.  One 
day,  an  electric  flash,  communication,  sense  of  con 
tinuity,  filling  out,  oneness !  Plane  is  here,  and  acts 
from  the  great  universe  of  the  plane  that  contains 
and  unifies  lines  and  points,  and  goes  upon  its  own 
adventure,  under  new  skies,  to  a  dimly  guessed  great 
future.  The  flash — and  containing  and  yet  beyond 
the  sense  of  all  planes,  lo!  an  overplane  is  born  to 
you.  And  the  solid  runs  its  race.  But  one  day 
again  the  flash!  Again  Oneness,  containing  all  that 
went  before,  with  its  own  career  beckoning,  with,  far 
away,  another  transcendence  beckoning!  One  day 
the  hyper-solid — 

A  house  is  built.  The  builder-owner  comes  in 
and  takes  possession,  and  begins  another  stretch 
of  undying  life. 

Any  man,  attaining  this  consciousness,  finds  him 
self  to  be  all  men. 

Love  of  Humanity  and  of  a  super-Humanity 
becomes  love  and  care  for  a  Self  that  is  old  Human 
ity,  new  Humanity,  and  Humanity  to  be.  That  sub 
human,  dubbed  animal,  plant,  and  mineral,  is  like 
wise  to  be  comprehended.  It  is  all  the  Self,  to  be 
realized  and  lifted  through  every  level.  Environ 
ment  is  the  Self,  Nature  the  Self,  God  the  Self. 
The  smaller  God  is  dead,  but  by  no  means  the 
greater  God.  That  overarches,  inheres,  yet! 

Miriam  and  I  looked  about  us.  We  saw  vast 
streams  of  tendency,  rivers  in  which  many  a  hun 
dred  smaller  rivers  flowed.  We  saw  Occident  and 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Orient  interfusing.  We  saw  over  the  armies,  the 
bayonets,  the  fortresses  and  dreadnaughts  of  the 
nations,  over  wars  past  and  present  and  very  prob 
ably  to  come,  the  approach  of  internationalism. 
We  could  say,  "It  comes — Tennyson's  'Parliament 
of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world!"1  We  saw 
socialization  at  hand,  the  common  inheritance  held 
as  common  inheritance.  We  saw  woman  and  man 
alike  free,  the  hands  of  the  sexes  joined,  their  brows 
touching.  We  saw  a  changing  attitude  toward  the 
child,  and  a  changing  toward  education.  We  saw 
medicine  and  law  opening  windows  in  their  man 
sions.  Business  was  growing  humane,  politics  clean. 
Art  and  letters  and  music  subtly  transformed  them 
selves.  We  saw  in  the  ancient  body  of  the  church, 
Protestant  and  Catholic  and  Jewish,  Mohammedan, 
Hindu  and  Buddhist,  and  what  other  names  are 
given,  fountains  rise  of  wider  practice  of  religion. 
We  saw  healthful  revolt.  The  Christian  Scientist 
went  forth,  the  Theosophist,  the  man  of  New 
Thought,  and  others.  .  .  .  We  saw  a  strong  tide 
flowing,  religious  tolerance  and  more  than  that, 
religious  understanding,  and  more  than  that,  relig 
ious  love.  We  saw  the  folk  take  up  beauty;  idea 
stretching  wing  in  a  sunrise  of  loveliness.  We  heard 
the  voices  growing  richer,  deeper.  Travel  in  the  air 
was  upon  us,  and  a  power  of  intercommunication 
once  only  longed  for.  Many  an  extension  of  enjoy 
ment  was  upon  us,  and  knowledge  in  great  breadths. 
We  saw  that  the  scientific  man  had  come  into  ground 
once  trodden  only  by  the  mystic.  We  heard  science 
say,  "Here  it  makes  of  itself  material,  and  here  it 
rests  immaterial."  What  Berkeley  had  said,  gather- 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

ing  into  a  line  many  a  tome,  hung  to-day  in  the 
atmosphere.  "All  is  spirit  and  its  ideas."  .  .  .  Those 
compacted  ideas  of  spirit  that  we  called  "the  body!" 
Kindness  and  sacredness  were  coming  into  the  com 
pact,  and  new  temperance  and  a  new  energy.  .  .  . 
The  great  bells  rang  for  the  great  century. 

Grandeur  brooded  over  our  time. 

We  knew  conflict — did  we  not  know  it  feelingly? 
But  through  all  storms  that  were  and  storms  to 
come,  streamed  on  the  unifying!  True  unifying 
comes  only  by  love  and  understanding.  We  touched 
the  profoundness  with  which  already  it  was  here. 
It  was  not  a  dream;  it  was  here,  though  yet  only  as 
a  shadow  of  itself.  Conflict  and  conflict  until  in 
the  dawn  it  rose  into  itself!  But  we  saw  now  the 
immense  extent  of  blue  sky  and  sunshine,  and  how 
local  were  all  storms,  even  the  worst. 

We  saw  men  accepting  their  neighbors.  We  took 
Jesus  of  Nazareth's  definition  of  neighbors. 

More  and  more  the  ships  made  the  fleet.  Mul 
tiplicity  did  not  vanish,  but  it  held  together. 

We  saw  that,  truly  speaking,  there  is  but  one  man, 
one  woman,  one  child.  Comprising,  transcending 
these,  there  will  walk  a  Being— 

That  one  is  us. 

We  call  it  "I"  because  it  is  "I." 

When  we  cease  to  talk  of  multiplicity  we  shall 
cease  to  talk  of  unity.  I  shall  live  with  my  ideas, 
of  all  dimensions. 

Orientation — sense  of  direction — sense  of  right — 
sense  of  the  future — sense  of  destiny — such  terms 
grew  vital. 

316 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

New  mind,  new  fulcrum!  Will  the  lifter,  the  lever, 
applied  itself  to  new  tasks. 

Further  and  further,  deeper  and  deeper,  Miriam 
and  I  began  to  know  ourselves.  There  was  no  end 
to  that,  could  be  no  end  to  that.  We  met  great 
countries  that  we  had  thought  somehow  to  be 
"other"  and  found  to  be  our  own.  We  desired  ever 
more  adequate  ideas,  fairer,  stronger,  kinder!  ever 
more  beautiful,  ever  more  potent  thought.  We 
wished  to  dissolve  concepts  not  well  or  wisely  put 
together  and  to  assemble  mightier,  richer  experi 
ences.  Out  of  the  horn  of  our  own  plenty  again  and 
again  and  forever  these  might  be  drawn. 

There  is  no  barrier  between  in  and  out.  All  that 
is  thought,  all  that  is  imaged,  lives  and  moves,  acts. 

We  addressed  ourselves  to  discovery,  to  assimila 
tion  of  that  which  has  been  discovered,  and  to  fresh 
discovery.  We  set  our  minds  to  higher  and  wider 
imagery.  Whatever,  little  or  much,  that  we  could 
find  or  do  of  value  would  be  for  all,  as  in  truth  it 
would  be  All  that  was  finding  or  doing.  There  is 
no  other  than  All.  .  .  .  But  there  is  yet  self -confusion, 
self -dissipation,  and  now  we  speak  from  one  degree 
of  the  Jacob's  stair,  and  now  from  another.  .  .  .  But 
for  all  that,  all  that  we  could  do  or  find  would  be  for 
all.  We  might  not  print  it  nor  speak  it,  nor  see  it, 
woven  into  a  present  institution.  But  nevertheless 
would  it  flow  and  penetrate.  Motion  in  that  world 
is  spherical  and  inconceivably  rapid.  .  .  . 

Miriam  and  I  worked  on  in  our  visible  earth, 
with  daily  life,  with  written  dramas,  with  aid  against 
the  raw  cruelty  of  many  a  human  situation.  But 
activity  widened,  though  it  flowed  invisibly.  So 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

flowing,  however,  the  order  of  results  nearest  to  the 
old  daily  living  tended  to  become  visible.  Or, 
rather,  these  merging  with  daily  living,  the  latter 
stood  up  stronger,  brighter-eyed. 

We  knew  that  we  were  immortal.  So  we  drank, 
day  by  day,  of  that  fountain  Ponce  de  Leon  sought. 

We  experimented  now  with  deliberation.  We 
planned  experiments,  and  we  caught  on  the  wing 
the  birds  of  paradise  that  flew  our  way.  We  mined 
in  this  direction — bridged  here — volatilized  this 
mass — redistributed.  Volatilization  is  one  word  for 
process.  More  and  more  particles  left  trie  old  earth, 
rose  to  a  new  level,  and  there  recombined.  We  did 
not  discard  old  words;  we  used  them.  But  they 
indicated,  each  one,  something  far  more  entire  than 
once  was  the  case.  We  learned  volume  and  we 
learned  momentum.  Touch,  taste,  smell,  color, 
sound,  muscular  sense,  sense  of  equilibrium,  sense 
of  motion,  all  senses,  changed  from  fleeting  sprites 
to  strong  angels.  We  had  faith  that  where  was  ex 
tension  there  were  we,  and  where  was  non-extension 
there  were  we.  That  is,  we  were  in  this  place  or 
that,  and  beside  that,  back  of  that,  under  that,  over 
that,  we  were  everywhere.  We  had  faith  that  we 
touched  all  time,  and  that  eternity  was  our  name. 
We  knew  that  we  were  spirit,  and  that  we  were  more 
conscious,  more  awakened,  than  once  was  so.  Being 
more  conscious,  being  more  awake,  we  entered  with 
naturalness  into  our  mode  of  life.  Over  our  heads, 
like  a  star,  hung  knowledge  that  there  was  yet  con 
sciousness,  yet  waking,  fuller  and  fuller — conscious 
ness,  awakening,  to  which  all  our  new  experience 
that  we  found  so  rich  might  come,  nay,  must  come, 

318 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

to  seem  the  hour  of  a  child,  a  dream,  a  faint  sound 
of  singing,  thin  shells  upon  the  shore  just  making 
one  guess  at  the  life  in  the  sea! 

That  which  we  set  ourselves  to  do  as  far  as  we 
could  was  to  think,  image,  feel,  act,  into  conscious 
being  the  Oneness  of  mankind,  the  I-ness  of  all  this 
that  says,  "We  are  separate — hard,  concrete  atoms, 
mostly  opposed  to  one  another! — each  for  itself, 
living  and  dying,  and  Wholeness  your  fancy!" 

We  had  dimly  seen  for  long  the  including  Shape. 
We  had  written  of  it — worked  for  it.  But  now  we 
saw  it  far  more  plainly,  now  we  felt  the  vast  magnetic 
drawing  of  it.  But  now  we  had  become  convinced 
that  the  external  ways  were  not  the  only  ways.  Now 
we  saw  that  the  clasping,  demonstrating  action 
worked  from  within  outward.  All  these  "selves," 
to  find  it  truly,  must  find  it  from  the  inner  side. 
They  could  not  be  pinned  together.  They  must 
flow  together.  Spirit  willing,  seeing,  everywhere! 
But  those  who  sailed  the  inner  seas  might  start 
thence  waves  of  help — outgiven  stimuli  that  might 
pass  from  part  to  part. 

Miriam  and  I  strongly  yearned  over  our  kind.  We 
wished  union.  We  wished  the  super-organism  with 
the  super-powers — the  super-mind,  the  super-heart. 
We  wished  Earth  to  cross  the  Red  Sea,  to  come  out 
of  Egypt.  We  saw  that  all  things  worked  to  that 
end,  if  they  knew  it,  or  if  they  knew  it  not.  .  .  . 

Where  all  are  seas  of  God,  the  diver  may  enter  from 
where  he  stands — must  enter  from  where  he  stands. 

Miriam  and  I  had  certain  dawning  powers.  We  en 
tered  through  them.  That  is,  they  grew  to  fuller  pow 
ers,  and  around  them,  infant  yet,  rose  other  powers. 

319 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

A  YEAR  after  that  moment  of  illumination  we 
found  ourselves  upon  a  ship  bound  for  Eng 
land.  We  had  sailed  for  months  of  travel.  There 
were  errands.  An  international  body,  of  which 
Miriam  was  an  officer,  met  that  summer  in  Geneva, 
and  she  was  to  speak  for  certain  measures  dear  to 
her  mind  and  heart.  In  London  was  to  be  found  a 
group  of  men  whom  I  wished  to  see.  There,  too,  was 
being  played  "Mr.  X,"  and  Llewellyn,  writing  of 
it  and  its  reception  by  a  London  ready  for  "strange 
poetry,"  urged  me  to  come  over  and  stay  awhile 
with  him,  "for  I  am  going  to  die  some  time,  and 
we  may  not  meet  in  these  old  dresses  that  we  have 
liked.  You  see  I  expect  meeting — indeed,  to  say 
it  all,  I  don't  wait  for  death  to  practise  meeting — 
but  yet,  my  friend,  I  want  to  see  you  in  the  old  ways, 
too!  I  likewise  want  to  see  Miriam." 

We  went.  After  England,  after  the  Continent, 
we  were  going  to  meet  Maxwell,  in  Egypt. 

The  sea  was  smooth,  the  hour  dusk,  on  the  horizon 
line  a  pale  gold  and  green  light,  cool  and  pure,  in 
the  sky  the  strongest  stars.  Miriam  and  I  walked, 
then  came  to  our  deck-chairs  and  lay  there,  in  sheer, 
exquisite  rest,  in  the  envelop  of  sea  and  sky.  Other 
passengers  had  gone  below;  only  a  few  figures  paced 
the  deck  or  reclined,  moveless,  in  the  wide  silence. 

320 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

We  sat  still.  .  .  .  Suddenly,  definitely,  with  all  dis 
tinctness,  I  saw  Maxwell.  He  was  in  a  boat  upon  a 
river.  He  made  landing,  stepped  out  and,  turning, 
spoke  to  the  rowers.  I  saw  green-clad  hills,  palm- 
trees,  the  roof  of  a  temple.  There  was  with  him 
an  Englishman  in  uniform,  and  also  a  stout,  dark- 
skinned,  turbaned  individual.  The  three  went  up  a 
flight  of  river  steps.  Night  came  over  it,  it  was  gone. 
Here  were  the  sea  and  the  horizon  light  and  the 
stars.  Miriam  turned  a  little  in  her  chair  and  spoke 
softly.  "What  did  you  see?" 

I  told  her.    "He  is  somewhere  in  India." 

"Curved  light,"  she  said.  "What  is  the  date? 
Can  you  tell  if  at  all  he  saw  you?" 

"I  think  that  he  did.  For  just  one  moment  as 
he  reached  the  top  of  the  steps." 

We  rested  in  our  chairs  in  silence.  The  sky  came 
down,  dark  blue,  to  the  sea,  the  stars  thickened. 
Darkness  that  was  light,  brine  and  tune  of  the  sea, 
kiss  of  the  wind,  held  us.  ...  Something  more  than 
these,  for  now  we  entered  with  our  faint,  nebulous 
power  of  perception,  into  a  consciousness  confused, 
multitudinous,  but  real.  Inchoately,  faintly,  we 
perceived  our  own  life.  Vision  and  voice,  touch, 
presence,  peoples,  tribes  and  nations,  groups,  in 
dividuals,  flowed  in  us.  We  held  them  as  the  sea 
holds  its  own,  as  the  heaven  holds  the  stars.  The 
active  principle  knew  that  it  surrounded,  contained, 
pervaded,  preserved, transcended  the  ideas  that  it  cre 
ated.  These  ideas  were  three-dimensional,  colored, 
real;  they  were  the  sensible  and  intelligible  world. 

We  lay,  oceans  whispering  each  to  each,  lost  or 
found,  with  all  number  in  one.  The  perceptions 

321 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

played.  So  fathomless,  so  wealthy  was  the  feeling, 
so  wealthy,  so  deep!  The  broad  face  of  the  earth 
was  there,  Asia  and  Europe  and  America  were  there, 
history,  and  names  great  and  small,  yesterday ,  to-day , 
and  to-morrow.  Vast  events  hung  in  that  inner 
space;  they  contained,  as  clouds  contain  the  water 
that  had  been  and  will  be  again  in  drops,  myriads  of 
small  events.  We  tasted  faiths  and  cultures,  wilder 
nesses,  cities,  movements  of  the  spirit  continuing 
from  of  old.  Salt  of  the  sea,  tone  of  the  wind,  we 
upheld  desire,  love.  We  had  the  knowledge  of  the 
heart,  we  embraced  the  law  of  kindness.  Within  us 
long,  long  human  love  glowed  and  chanted.  We  were 
all  lovers,  we  were  all  parents.  We  were  all  children. 
We  experienced  family  love,  village,  and  tribal  love, 
nation  love,  world  love.  We  knew  comrade  love,  and 
we  knew  also  kneeling  reverence  for  the  Wholeness 
all  unattained.  We  knew  sublimity,  we  knew  awe. 
.  .  .  We  knew  the  flash  of  difference,  the  outward 
passing  sparks,  the  falling  stars.  Yet  were  they  in 
the  whole,  and  on  the  mission  of  the  whole!  Dif 
ference  and  Likeness,  for  so  was  attained  the  essen 
tial  rich  variety,  the  sweet  taste  of  novelty,  the  wild 
grapes  of  romance.  .  .  .  Faces  came  and  went.  .  .  . 
Summations  and  essences  made  the  honey  of  the 
Ancient  of  Days. 

The  ship's  musicians  began  to  play — overture  of 
"Die  Meistersinger. "  Miriam  and  I  rose  and  walked 
the  deck  one  or  twice,  then  went  within  to  the  lights 
and  voices  of  the  saloon. 

That  night,  in  our  state-room,  as  she  put  out  the 
light  and  stood  before  the  opened  window,  and  all 
the  zest  and  fragrance  of  the  sea  made  entry,  she 

322 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

said :  "How  rich  is  every  man  and  woman  and  child 
in  the  world!  Golconda  and  California  and  Kim- 
berley  hang  on  the  bough  above  their  head!" 

"We  shall  not  get  the  fruit  until  we  grow  tall 
enough." 

"Yes.  But  we  are  growing  taller  every  moment. 
Not  a  dwarf  but  shall  some  day  reach  it! — oh,  my 
darling  world!" 

We  sailed  across  the  sea.  We  had  acquaintances 
on  this  ship  and  we  made  others.  By  now,  in  our 
degree,  she  and  I  had  that  earth-fame  which  brought 
folk  to  glance  as  we  passed.  "That  is  Miriam  Forth 
— That  is  Michael  Forth."  One  evening  an  enter 
tainment  had  been  arranged  for  some  seamen's  fund. 
A  star  of  opera  sang  three  songs.  A  mountain- 
climber  related  an  adventure  in  the  Himalayas,  a 
dancer  danced,  a  famous  violinist  played  a  sweet, 
uncanny,  ancient  melody.  Miriam  spoke,  ten  min 
utes,  her  theme,  "To-morrow."  She  was  the 
mountain-climber,  the  dancer,  the  violinist,  and  her 
self,  herself!  She  spoke  to-night  with  extraordinary 
power.  ...  I,  listening,  was  aware  of  Madam 
Black.  That  great  personality  and  Miriam  and  I 
made  union.  Behind  the  speaker,  behind  the  lis 
tener,  in  a  clear,  vibrating  darkness,  pulsed  all 
Russia,  all  Europe,  America. 

A  day  after  this,  the  sea  running  free,  the  sky  like 
an  archipelago,  many  cloud  islands,  great  and  small, 
with  deep  straits  of  blue  air  between,  a  man  came  up 
to  us  where  we  rested  against  the  rail  and  watched 
the  foam-mosaic  at  the  side  of  the  ship.  We  had 
noted  him  before;  we  knew  that  he  was  Ransome, 
the  traveler.  He  greeted  us  and  we  him ;  we  did  not 

323 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

need  to  give  names  to  and  fro.  After  a  little  we 
moved  to  our  chairs,  placed  where  we  might  watch 
the  sea.  He  found  one  for  himself  and  sat  before 
us,  dark  and  thin,  with  a  fine  eagle  face.  It  seemed 
that  he  read  and  liked  the  dramas  of  Michael  Forth. 
We  passed  to  talk  of  his  wanderings.  He  knew  all 
the  zones  and  man  in  varieties  of  mind  and  passion — 

With  many  an  arm  and  maw  and  face  and  eye. 

Presently — I  do  not  remember  the  connection — 
he  was  speaking  of  Lourdes  and  more  ancient  pil 
grimage  goals,  Compostella,  and  where  not,  of  faith 
and  shrines  of  miracle,  and  legendary  doings  in  the 
Middle  Ages  and  all  other  ages,  in  Europe  and  all 
other  continents.  He  brushed  Arabia,  Persia,  and 
India,  and  talked  of  Yogins  and  Sufis;  then,  with  the 
calm,  wide  curve  of  a  broad-pinioned  bird,  he  was 

in  London,  where,  last  year,  he  had  gone  with 

and  ,  Psychical  Researchers,  to  see  ,  who 

came  near  to  the  powers  of  Stainton  Moses.  "Yes. 
He  did  some  quite  wonderful  things!  Why  under 
the  sun  shouldn't  an  exceptional  person  now  and 
then?  We  allow  every  other  machine  to  improve. 
Why  shouldn't  the  human  machine — why  shouldn't 
it  begin  to  respond  to  wider  ends  ?"  Between  the  first 
ship,  with  its  oar  or  rag  of  a  sail,  and  this  liner, 
differences  in  power!  The  nature  of  development — 
desire — will — mind — did  the  one.  Why  isn't  it  doing 
the  other?  I  hold  that  it  is  doing  it — and  that  there 
isn't  any  unnaturalness !" 

He  regarded  blue  sea  and  blue  sky.  "Old  wits  con 
tinually  bettered  and  new  wits  continually  inaugu 
rated  and  more  and  more  fully  adopted.  The  sum 

324 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

growing  larger  all  the  time,  finer,  too,  as  it  works 
itself  over  and  over,  keener,  more  lustrous.  .  .  .  What 
else  is  there  than  just  the- to-be-expected  ?  ...  I 
do  not  think  to  be  of  the  substance  of  a  throned 
idiot — nor  a  throned  villain,  either!" 

The  sea  ran  around  the  world.  The  fluid  air  was 
not  here  nor  there,  it  flowed  afar  and  near.  ...  I 
sat  upon  the  deck  of  the  Zeus  and  listened  to  Ran- 
some  the  traveler — but  also  I  was  away  from  this — 
all  around  and  all  through.  .  .  .  Flowing  mind  that 
was  also  Ransome 's  mind,  as  it  was  Miriam's  mind, 
and  others  and  others  and  others  in  incalculable 
numbers — the  host  of  mind.  .  .  .  Strong  was  the 
rapture!  Thought  there  had  great  voice  —  god 
voice.  It  sank  away,  but  its  shadow,  its  echo, 
lingering,  clothed  itself  in  words  from  an  ancient 
dialogue  between  man  and  Man — between  the  in 
dividual  and  the  Generic  Consciousness. 

"  Then  the  son  of  Pandu  beheld  the  whole  world  with 
all  its  differences  gatlwred  together  in  the  body  oj  that 
God  of  gods." 

The  strong  music  rolled  away.  Ransome  was  still 
speaking :  "So,  little  by  little,  do  we  acquire  powers. 
Genus  Homo  pulls  himself  together !  Mother  Nature 
learns  finer  magic !" 

Miriam  sang  under  her  breath: 

"  Magic — magic! 
Out  of  the  cave, 
Out  of  the  lead! 
Touch  the  gold, 
Spread  the  wings — 
Magician!" 

" Magic?     What  is  it?"  spoke  Ransome.     "Un- 

325 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

conscious  truth?  .  .  .  What  is  it  that  is  emerging — 
faster  and  faster — butterfly  out  of  chrysalis?  Every 
fifth  person  you  meet  to-day  has  an  inkling  of  it! 
It  is  in  the  air.  What  should  you  call  it?  Another 
sense?  A  superior  field  of  consciousness?  Specie- 
thought?  Self -recognition?  The  Real?" 

"Somewhat  of  all  that,  perhaps!  Each  fraction  of 
understanding  as  it  is  reached  takes  its  fractional 
name.  .  .  .  Thousands  of  marvelous  half-way  houses. 
...  In  the  end  a  Person  that  endures — conceives, 
acts,  and  enjoys." 

The  Zeus  sailed  on — jade-colored  seas  and  tur 
quoise  sky  and  a  healthful,  singing  wind. 

We  came  to  the  Irish  coast.  Out  of  those  about 
us  watching  the  bare,  the  wild,  the  emerald  beauty, 
rose  a  girl's  voice.  "I  wish  we  had  time  for  Kil- 
larney!" 

One  instant  after  the  word  fell,  then  Miriam 
sharply  turned  her  head  and  drew  me  with  her  gray 
eyes.  Our  inner  senses  sprang  each  to  each,  leaped 
together  far  down.  .  .  .  We  were  in  Killarney. 

The  peat  burned  on  the  hearth,  the  smoke  made 
itself  tasted.  The  boy  was  dying,  having  received  a 
sword-thrust  in  the  battle.  The  girl  sat  upon  the 
earth  floor  beside  the  low  bed.  The  hands  of  the  two 
touched  on  the  covering  of  frieze;  she  sat  staring, 
seeing  union  and  separation.  .  .  .  He  felt  the  hurt  of 
the  sword;  things  went  in  a  mist,  armies  in  a  mist, 
the  wings  of  sorrow.  The  grandmother  sat  gathered 
together  in  the  corner  of  the  hearth.  Now  she  was 
silent  and  now  she  keened.  The  sound  was  bitter. 
The  door  opened  and  men  and  women  came  in. 
There  was  a  burly  priest  carrying  soul-comfort. 

326 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Behind  him  walked  a  soldier,  and  it  was  all  long  ago, 
back  perhaps  as  far  as  Elizabeth's  time.  The  grand 
mother  never  left  the  corner  where  the  peat  smoke 
curled  about  her,  for  all  that  the  Host  was  coming 
in.  The  grandmother  was  heathen,  wild,  believing 
a  god  in  the  lake  and  the  mountain.  Who  would 
work  for  her  now,  and  the  times  so  horribly  ill? 
.  .  .  Boy  and  girl,  grandmother,  priest,  the  English 
soldier,  the  mistier,  fainter  others,  we,  Miriam- 
Michael,  we  leaning  there  against  the  rail  of  the 
Zeus,  we  were  them  all — we  were  Killarney.  The 
thing  was  there  with  a  great  pang  and  vividness — 
then  it  was  not.  .  .  .  We  sighed,  we  came  back  to  the 
Zeus.  .  .  .  There  was  a  link  made  with  a  night  long 
ago  at  York  and  with  the  monk  Eadwine  listening 
to  the  chanting  in  the  church.  The  infinite  sea  of 
the  memory  of  this  earth!  Moments  entered  con 
sciousness  so,  they  are  restored  so — and  whence  they 
came  there  are  decillions  of  others ! 

What  are  words?  .  .  . 

The  Irish  shore  faded,  the  Zeus  came  to  Liverpool. 
Ransome  traveled  with  us  in  the  railway  carriage 
to  London.  We  gazed  and  gazed  again  upon  the 
country  through  which  we  drew. 

England's  green  and  pleasant  land — 

So  fair  it  was !  So  far  fairer  it  might  become,  would 
become.  After  a  time,  when  the  eye  was  somewhat 
sated,  Ransome  began  again  to  talk  of  Psychical 
Research.  We  had  had  companions  in  the  carriage, 
but  they  had  dismounted  at  some  town.  For  a 
while  we  were  alone.  He  wished  to  introduce  us 

327 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

in  London  to  three  or  four  men  and  women  whom  he 
named.  We  agreed,  and  we  came  to  owe  to  Ransome 
more  than  one  valued  connection,  besides  his  own 
rich  mind.  At  last  he  took  out  a  pocket  book  and 
from  it  a  paper  which  he  unfolded.  "  That's  a 
scheme  of  powers  that  the  late  Frederick  Myers 
drew  up.  It  belongs  in  his  book  that  is  to  be  pub 
lished.  A  friend  showed  it  to  me,  and  I  asked  leave 
to  copy  it." 

I  took  it  from  him  and  Miriam  and  I  read  together 
Myers's  Synopsis  of  Vital  Faculty. 

First  Series. — Phenomena  Supraliminally  Controlled,  or  Occur 
ring  in  Ordinary  Life  .  .  . 

Second  Series. — Phenomena  Subliminally  Controlled  .  .  . 
Third  Series. — Phenomena  Claimed  as  Spiritually  Controlled  .  .  . 

We  read  it  with  attention,  acquiescence.  "  That's  a 
good  compendium.  We  should  say  Spirit  or  Self, 
where  he  says  'spirits' — " 

The  country  went  by,  so  verduous,  so  sweet !  All 
the  towns,  villages,  solitary  houses —  "It  is  all  in 
us,  in  us  all,"  said  Miriam.  "Bone  of  bone  and  flesh 
of  flesh  and  blood  of  blood  and  spirit  of  spirit.  Oh ! 
world  our  mother — world  our  child — world  our  self!" 


328 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

T  LEWELLYN  had  aged.  His  beard  was  almost 
*-'  white.  He  talked  of  an  old  house  crumbling  to 
pieces.  "I  see  some  lines  that  the  new  will  follow. 
Partly  like  the  old,  partly  not.  .  .  .  Michael,  do  you 
remember  that  evening  on  the  mountain-top  above 
Africa,  where  we  lit  our  fire,  and  the  air  was  some 
thing  finer  than  air,  and  we  felt,  all  of  us,  friends  for 
ever?  I  remember  what  a  strange  beauty — vibrant, 
shining — you  had  that  night!" 

"You  had  it,  too — all  had  it!  We  saw  each  upon 
the  other  the  radiance  that  we  all  gave." 

"Well,  it  was  there!  Well,  we  are  friends  forever, 
meeting  and  meeting  and  meeting  again.  .  .  .  Pil 
grims,  adventurers,  explorers,  poets — all  the  race  of 


romance." 


We  sat  in  the  London  house  which  he  shared  with 
Sir  Charles.  Sir  Charles  was  in  India — Maxwell, 
too.  "I  go  there  also,  pretty  often,"  said  Llewellyn. 
"On  the  wings  of — Poetry!  That  is,  without  wings. 
.  .  .  He  who  flies  without  wings.  .  .  .  The  one  who  is 
there  anyhow  without  flying  is  the  poet  we  call  God. 
There  and  here!"  He  turned  to  Miriam.  "Don't 
you  sing?  I  should  say  that  you  did." 

She  sang  for  him,  sitting  there  in  the  rich  dusk, 
sang  without  instrument,  thrillingly,  exquisitely. 

329 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

The  notes  died.  We  sat  quietly  till  the  lights  were 
brought.  "I  look  forward  to  million -folded  wis 
dom,"  said  Llewellyn,  abruptly.  "The  most  vital, 
the  vastest  experience!" 

"It  is." 

"Yes  .  .  .  Michael,  I  have  always  waked  at  dawn. 
It  has  always  been  my  season.  The  bloom  of  the 
vineyard,  the  wind  over  the  palms  is  then  .  .  .  More 
and  more  I  get  wonder,  pleased  surprise,  a  sense  of 
Olympian  food." 

"The  right  bread  and  wine." 

"Just!    You  two,  I  am  glad  that  you  came." 

John  Sydney  was  in  Australia.  But  I  met  again 
Carthew  Roberts,  and  I  was  happy  to  find  Panta- 
gruel.  .  .  .  Miriam  and  I  went  together  to  the  house 
yet  lived  in  by  the  Mannheims.  The  brother  was  in 
the  city,  at  his  place  of  business,  where,  said  Llewel 
lyn,  he  prospered.  Mannheim's  sister  also  was  away, 
but  would  return  presently.  Would  we  wait?  We 
waited,  and  talked  with  the  plaintive,  fearful  cousin. 
Her  easy  tears  came  yet  for  Mannheim,  but  chiefly 
for  herself.  She  said  that  the  world  was  a  selfish, 
cruel  place,  distressing  to  God!  The  house  was 
clean,  these  three  people  loved  and  clung  together, 
but  the  cousin  and,  I  knew,  the  brother  heard  fog 
horns  day  and  night,  dreaded  collisions,  suffered 
shadowy  shipwreck  all  the  time. 

Mannheim's  sister  came  in.  A  thousand  thousand 
fingers  of  thought  and  feeling  had  modeled  her 
strong  Jewish  face.  She  greeted  us,  and  we  talked 
of  Mannheim.  After  a  while  she  took  us  to  the  small 
room  where  yet  were  kept  his  books  and  specimens. 
We  stood  beside  his  old,  large,  shabby  desk.  Above 

330 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

hung  a  small  painting,  a  good  one,  by  an  unknown 
artist — Moses  leading  the  people  forth. 

Mannheim's  sister  spoke:  "My  brother  and  my 
cousin  in  the  other  room  think  he's  dead.  The  most 
that  they  can  do  is  to  see  him  in  some  little  outward 
way,  as  he  looked  or  sat  or  spoke  some  day  when, 
they  say,  he  was  'living." 

Upon  the  desk  stood  an  old  hour-glass.  Her  large, 
dark  eyes  regarded  it.  "They  think,  'His  life  was 
an  hour-glass,  and  the  sand  is  run.'  I  know  that  it 
is  no  such  thing.  He  is  all  hours,  and  his  movement 
does  not  stop." 

That  night,  waking  after  sound  sleep,  I  very 
clearly  saw  Mannheim.  The  sense  was  that  we  had 
met  in  the  dreamless  state,  that  I  had  made  swift, 
preoccupied  return  through  the  dream-belt,  bringing 
him  with  me  so  wholly  that,  simply  and  swiftly,  the 
objective  senses  opening,  the  presence  of  him  wras 
transferred  from  the  subjective,  held,  and  he  stood 
in  the  room  clad  in  the  old  familiar  seeming.  Was 
this  just  the  process  or  was  it  not,  I  powerfully  felt 
Mannheim,  and  for  an  instant  he  stood  visibly  before 
me,  like  a  light-filled  figure  from  a  stained-glass  win 
dow.  He  moved,  was  gone. 

I  lay  with  a  clear  brain,  not  thinking  in  words, 
but  receiving  impacts,  understanding  them  as  they 
came.  The  process,  the  motion,  was  always  one  of 
expansion,  bringing  with  it  a  sense  of  clear  order  and 
tranquillity.  Then  followed  a  specific  light  and 
warmth,  then  with  a  deep  sense  of  pleased  surprise 
the  intellect  took  count  of  the  moment's  content. 
The  content  was  oftenest  a  wide,  fresh  ordering  of 
much  data,  a  sense  of  things  coming  from  sequence 

331 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

into  scope,  a  mrstery  of  the  octave  and  the  rhythm. 
Mastery  of  the  old  octave  a..id  the  old  rhythm — by 
no  means  mastery  of  the  new.  On  the  one  hand,  the 
moments  were  syntheses;  on  the  other  hand,  but 
the  barest  elements.  They  were  "bright  shoots  of 
everlastingness."  Miriam  and  I  and  many  another 
divined  the  kingdom  of  everlastingness,  and  that 
we  should  walk  there.  But  we  could  not  walk  there 
yet — not  boldly  and  bodily,  through  all  our  moments. 

But  every  moment  that  we  caught  from  the  new 
order  near  id  us  there ;  and  through  us,  as  through  all 
others  who  sailed  for  that  America,  neared  the  whole 
world.  We,  with  all  those  others,  who  were  no 
"others,"  after  all,  were  spiritual  ancestors. 

Lying  there  in  the  London  bedroom,  at  the  turn 
of  the  night,  Michael  Forth  saw  how  simply  the  dead 
are  alive,  saw  how,  presently,  the  plane  of  com 
munication  widens  until  we  know  that,  until  we 
touch  again.  Touch  the  absent  in  time  as  we  shall 
touch  the  absent  in  space. 

I  slept  again  and  waked  to  the  divine  morning 
freshness  blessing  the  city.  Miriam  set  apart  the 
door  between  our  rooms.  "I  went  home  last  night 
and  saw  Kate  and  Dugald  and  mother  and  father 
and  all." 

In  London  we  saw  much,  met  many  folk.  Eng 
land  was  not  yet  through  with  bitter  war.  The 
Russo-Japanese  cloud  gathered.  We  heard  talk, 
excited  or  depressed,  as  the  case  might  be;  we  noted 
hate  in  many  dilutions.  Miriam  and  I  sat  silent 
here.  .  .  .  We  had  parted  with  war.  It  had  not  been 
always  thus  with  us — by  no  means  always  thus — 
but  it  was  so  now. 

332 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

London  tasted  to  us;  massively,  dearly,  was  us. 
We  touched  artists,  players,  write',  j,  and  men  and 
women  workers  toward  upward  alteration  in  many 
a  social  form.  There  were  men  of  science  with  whom, 
through  Gamaliel,  we  came  into  relation.  Ransome 
gave  us  a  fourth  group.  All  interested  us;  all  were 
doing  their  work  where  they  found  themselves.  And 
in  and  through  and  over  all  hung  the  sense  of 
traveling.  One  by  one,  we  waked  to  find  ourselves 
on  a  far  journey. 

Now  and  again  we  went  to  the  churches.  Here, 
too,  as  in  America,  there  seemed  to  us  change. 
Miriam  said,  "They  seem  to  be  throwing  away  and 
they  are  coming  closer." 

She  and  I  sat  one  day  in  Westminster  Abbey.  The 
organ  had  ceased,  the  clergy  were  gone,  the  folk 
had  dispersed.  The  light  rayed  down  upon  us 
through  the  rose  window.  The  great  place  of  the 
great  dead  held  so  for  a  little,  then  it  rocked  and 
split  and  vanished  and  there  stood  a  Living  Man. . .  . 

Death?     Outgrow  death. 

But  do  not  think  that  death  will  teach  you  to 
outgrow  death.  It  has  to  be  done  by  the  living. 

To  save  one  mother  alive  .  .  .  Christ,  that  is 
Power  and  Wisdom  and  Love  flowing,  rising,  in 
each  and  all.  .  .  . 

Miriam  and  I  went  out  into  the  soft  sunshine  of 
London  town.  She  and  I  with  many  another  walk 
ing  the  earth  to-day  and  yesterday  and  to-morrow 
would  grow  into  that  Image,  so  profoundly  general, 
so  profoundly  individual!  We  should  grow  into  it 
as,  in  Judea,  one  named  Jesus  had  grown  into  it. 
All,  unconsciously  and  then  consciously,  would  grow 

333 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

there.  Christ  and  the  comprehension  of  Christ  grow 
ing  by  multiplication,  accretion,  fusion,  intuition.  . .  . 

In  and  through  and  over  London  town,  holding 
London  town  and  all  the  towns,  a  sense  of  rock,  a 
sense  of  power,  a  sense  of  warmth,  a  sense  of  light, 
a  sense  of  Personality,  a  sense  of  Risen  Life — 

"There  is  a  natural  body  and  there  is  a  spiritual 
body. 

"It  is  sown  in  corruption,  it  is  raised  in  Incorrup- 
tion" 

Miriam  and  Michael  Forth  went  down  to  Thames- 
side  and  found  a  bench  and  sat  there.  They  turned 
each  to  the  other;  their  eyes  shone  each  into  the 
other's.  They  saw  immortal,  reciprocal  love,  filling 
time  and  space  and  supporting  these. 

The  light  came  down  on  the  river.  The  river  grew 
luminous.  The  great  town  spoke  and  said:  "Oh, 
great  indeed  shall  I  become;  oh,  wise  indeed;  oh, 
fair  indeed!"  We  sat  there  long,  tasting  truth  that 
was  relative,  but  nearer  kin  to  the  real  than  our  old 
relativities.  We  thought  of  the  old,  and  we  smiled 
at  each  other  as  we  smiled  at  Kate  and  Dugald's 
play. 

The  colored  river  flowed  on.  We  leaned  upon 
the  parapet  of  Westminster  Bridge  and  watched  it 
flow.  The  clock  behind  us  struck  the  hour — we 
walked  home  to  Llewellyn's  house. 

The  London  days  went  by.  We  bade  these  Eng 
lish  selves  farewell  and,  Llewellyn  with  us,  crossed 
to  France,  that,  too,  had  its  great  flavor,  magic, 
multitudinous,  one! 


334 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

MIRIAM  and  I  lingered  at  an  inn  in  Savoy,  await 
ing  the  day  when  we  must  go  to  Geneva.  The 
place  in  which  we  found  ourselves  was  so  very  fair 
— such  high,  green  slopes,  such  woods  of  chestnuts, 
so  blue,  so  mountain-pure  a  lake,  such  gracious, 
stately  mountain  shapes  crowned  with  white  wreaths ! 
We  walked  great  distances,  we  lay  in  the  long,  sweet 
grass,  ate  the  bread  we  brought  with  us,  and  drank 
from  our  one  flask  wine  of  the  country.  On  a  cer 
tain  day  we  walked  to  a  small  gray  village  high  above 
the  lake,  under  a  splendid  mountain  wall.  There, 
with  a  definite  tone  of  strangeness,  fitness,  sweet 
ness,  whom  should  I  meet  again  but  the  little, 
wrinkled  man  with  the  book  of  verse  who  had  sat 
down  beside  me  on  the  train  from  Landon,  years  and 
years  ago,  when  I  would  go  to  Africa? 

We  found  him  in  the  churchyard,  sitting  medita 
tively  among  the  dark  crosses.  I  stood  before  him, 
looking  down  into  his  eyes  that  were  remarkably 
limpid,  past  trouble  and  deep.  He  put  up  a  hand. 
11  Wait  a  moment  until  I  steady,  until  I  steady  the 
glass !  .  .  .  You  sat  beside  me  on  a  train  in  the  South. 
We  talked.  You  were  poet,  too.  Yes ! . . .  I  told  you 
that  we'd  meet  again!" 

He  was  traveling  with  a  party  whom  he  must, 

335 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

presently,  rejoin  at  the  nearest  large  town.  "I've 
just  another  day  in  this  country.  I  walked  up  here 
from  ." 

I  told  him  who  was  Miriam,  and  Miriam  how  the 
two  of  us  had  met.  He  gave  us  his  name,  "  Allen — 
Christopher  Allen."  We  walked  through  the  vil 
lage  that  was  a  tiny  place,  and  we  sat  under  a  great 
fir  with  the  mountain  towering  behind  us,  and  the 
lake  thrown  below  like  a  sapphire.  Four  or  five 
children,  walking  on  the  road,  stood  still,  then  came 
shyly  over  to  us.  They  had  berries,  which  we  bought, 
and  they  answered  questions;  then  one,  quite  sud 
denly,  said:  "I  know  the  story  of  the  place.  Do  you 
want  me  to  tell  it  to  you?" 

She  told  it  in  a  wild-bird  way,  on  a  treble  note, 
a  legend  half  pagan,  half  Christian.  It  ran  now  a 
grim  and  now  a  delectable  phantasy.  She  finished. 
We  applauded  the  legend,  her  art  and  her  kindness. 
A  bell  rang,  sweet  in  the  distance.  As  though  it 
were  some  understood  signal,  the  children  bobbed  and 
bowed  to  us  and  ran  away  down  the  road.  Where 
they  had  been  a  friendly  dog  appeared  and  came  to 
be  patted.  Then  a  sweet  bird  sang,  and  a  butterfly 
with  a  coat  of  many  colors  sailed  to  and  from  a  tall 
flower.  We  heard  the  drone  of  bees;  ants  at  our  feet 
went  by  in  a  line.  The  odor  of  the  mountain  world 
was  in  our  nostrils,  sun  entered  our  very  hearts. 

Our  tongues  uttered  few  words.  The  inner  world 
was  shining,  ringing,  loving.  We  loved  this  place 
and  all  places.  We  loved  these  beasts,  walking, 
creeping,  and  flying,  and  all  beasts  walking,  creeping, 
and  flying  up  the  Time-road  out  of  beasthood.  We 
loved  the  children  and  all  children  wherever  they 

336 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

might  be  under  the  four  winds.  We  loved  the  world 
— oh,  bright  and  dark,  we  loved  the  world ! 

Said  Miriam,  in  a  low  voice:  "We  are  coming  to 
the  waters'  meet.  Don't  you  hear  the  great  sea?" 

The  man  of  ancient  days,  and  he  had  again  with 
him  a  book  of  verse,  sat  gazing  with  us  and  we  with 
him  at  the  blue  lake.  Joy  from  within  out  makes 
beauty,  love  from  within  out  makes  goodness,  wis 
dom  from  within  out  makes  knowledge  and  power, 
motion  from  within  out  makes  event.  All  the  music 
of  the  world  plays  for  the  coming  of  intuitional  life. 

The  scene  about  us  rested,  but  a  thousand  more 
rolled  in,  wave  on  wave  .  .  .  mass  sense  of  an  ex- 
haustless  ocean  rolling  to  eternity.  Memory  waked 
and  saw  all  her  far  homes,  far  and  near,  near  and 
far.  We  remembered  ourself,  and  ourself  was  the 
world.  World  past,  world  present,  world  to  come. 
World  past  we  held  the  clearest — world  present  was 
a  sound,  a  thrill,  a  grief,  a  gladness — world  to  come 
was  radiance. 

The  throb,  the  vision,  the  voice  of  understanding, 
passed  on,  wave  form.  We  three  had  shared  the 
impact.  .  .  .  How  to  teach  that  the  thought  has 
muscle  and  moves,  that  the  dream  and  the  vision  go 
forth,  that  desire  and  will,  that  the  image  and  the 
deed  and  the  life  are  circulatory! 

I  had  not  spoken  aloud,  but  the  man  beside  me 
took  with  ease  my  thought.  He  carried  it  on, 
speaking  with  his  eyes  upon  a  flower  which  his  hand 
moved  to  and  fro :  ' '  There's  not  a  desire  nor  deter 
mination,  nor  mood,  nor  thought,  nor  aspiration, 
intuition,  super- thought,  nor  feeling  that  is  not  pub 
lic,  general,  common  goods!  Where's  the  wall  just 

337 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

now  between  the  minds  of  us  sitting  here?  If  in 
old  life  there  seemed  a  wall,  new  life  flies  over  it, 
runs  through  it!  Share  and  share  alike.  All  we  are 
one.  .  .  .  That,  just  now,  was  a  lovely  glow  from  to 
morrow — warmth  from  heaven,  breeze  from  home! 
Going  up  to  the  One.  But  for  long,  for  very  long, 
my  friend,  it  may  almost  seem  forever,  we  shall 
find  in  One  a  society!'* 

"I  shall  not  quarrel  there.    It  is  all  one/* 

"It  is  all  music,"  said  Miriam. 

We  went  down  the  lake,  over  the  happy  roads  to 
the  inn.  Going,  there  held  a  sense  of  exquisiteness,  of 
harmonious  movement  throughout  humanity,  quint 
essential  pleasantness  of  vast  give  and  take,  in 
finite  variousness  of  liking.  The  intensity  of  the 
glow  up  there  on  the  mountain  receded — the  strong, 
aromatic  breeze  from  home  passed  on.  But  for  all 
that  they  seemed  to  pass  and  seemed  to  recede, 
was  left  as  ever  a  knowledge,  a  lift,  a  treasure  of 
leaven!  Wider  and  wider,  higher  and  higher,  sub 
tler  and  subtler  grows  the  brain. 

The  new-old  companion  stayed  with  us  through 
the  day  and  evening.  In  the  morning  he  must  go 
to  join  those  others  with  whom  also  he  was  traveling. 

We  walked  by  the  lake.  There  shone  a  young 
moon,  and  breathed  around  a  dry,  healthful  air, 
wave-break  of  delicate  odors,  delicate  sounds.  Those 
over-perceptions,  upon  the  shore  of  whose  vast  plane 
and  order  we  had  come,  gave  us  of  their  new,  their 
delicious  flowers  and  fruits.  Blossom  after  blossom, 
purple  cluster,  gold  orb,  they  fell  in  our  way. 

In  the  morning,  very  early,  Miriam  and  I  were  up 
to  see  the  comrade  go.  How  many  comrades  we 

338 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

were  gathering,  finding — were  gathering,  finding  us! 
.  .  .  Delicate  and  strange  are  the  ways  of  the  All. 

He  walked  away  in  the  coral  light.  We  had  coffee 
and  rolls  together,  with  simple  talk  of  mountains, 
roads,  and  towns.  He  went  away  who  did  not  go; 
we  stayed  who  also  went. 

Miriam  that  morning  had  letters  to  write.  I 
walked  to  a  fir  wood  sloping  upward.  The  ground  lay 
all  purple,  brown,  and  clean.  Innumerable  pillars 
ranged  themselves,  strong  and  high,  while  there 
sprang  overhead  a  deep  and  marvelous  roof,  moving, 
fragrant.  I  lay  down  among  strong  roots,  on  the 
purple  ground.  There  was  stillness,  and  yet  the 
ineffable,  whispering  surf. 

It  was  to-day  a  surf  of  recollection.  .  .  . 

Every  one  is  Satan  and  every  one  is  Christ  and 
every  one  is  that  third  who  moves  from  Satan  into 
Christ. 

I  came  full  upon  Royal  and  Dorothea— came 
upon  them  in  my  own  nature  where  they  are  because 
there  is  nowhere  else  for  them  to  be. 

Place,  moment,  expanded,  extended.  Here  were 
seas  of  Royal-Dorothea.  .  .  .  And  still  they  were 
seas  of  myself — my  seas — as  Michael  and  Miriam 
were  seas  of  them  in  America,  their  seas,  found 
in  their  nature  because  there  is  nowhere  else  for 
them  to  be.  ...  We  flowed  together — then  some 
thing  rose  out  of  the  seas  and  understood  them  all. 
Oh,  my  clay  that  is  to  be  given  life!  Oh,  the  all  of  me 
that  must  be  adventured,  lived,  loved,  sublimed! 

There  is  an  "I"  that  is  to  vanish,  and  there  is  an 
"I"  that  is  to  come,  and  time  is  long. 

I  sat  in  the  fir  wood,  and  on  every  hand  it  passed 

339 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

into  infinity.  .  .  .  And  then,  like  soundless  thunder, 
there  was  a  cry,  and  like  invisible  lightning  there  was 
a  shock,  a  change!  Miriam  was  with  me  as  always 
she  was  with  me,  but  there  was  a  difference  felt  from 
head  to  foot!  There  was  rending,  sundering,  and 
there  was  entrance.  .  .  .  She  was  not  at  the  inn  yon 
der — for  that  one  instant  she  had  been  in  the  fir 
wood — now,  I  knew,  I  knew,  she  was  in  the  realm 
to  which  you  go  by  the  inner  gate! 

I  ran  from  the  wood  and  up  the  path.  .  .  .  She 
was  sitting  at  the  table  by  the  window,  a  letter  to 
her  mother  under  her  hand.  Her  head  was  lifted, 
resting  so  against  the  chair's  high  back.  She  had 
died  in  a  moment,  the  heart  stopping — some  trouble 
we  had  not  guessed.  Her  face  wore  her  gipsy  smile, 
dauntless,  magical. 

I  buried  the  loved  body  of  her  by  the  blue  lake 
where  the  mountains  reflected,  where  the  song  of  birds 
was  heard.  Around  it  lay  dust  of  a  mountain  people. 

I  would  not  go  back  across  the  sea  to  Flowerfield 
just  yet.  It  was  full  home  to  Kate  and  Dugald. 
Aunt  Kate  and  Uncle  John,  John  and  Amy,  Catherine 
and  Lewis,  all  who  loved  Miriam,  loving  her  still, 
for  she  lived  still  and  always,  would  find  comfort .  .  . 
still,  still,  as  stair  after  stair  is  mounted,  compan 
ionship  with  that  other  mounting  spirit! 

Miriam ! 

I  wrote  that  I  should  come  to  Flowerfield  in 
October. 

Maxwell's  whereabouts  were  known  now  to  me. 
I  wrote  asking  him  to  meet  me  in  Athens.  I  stayed 
a  month  in  Savoy,  by  the  lake,  among  the  mountains, 
in  this  inn,  by  this  grave. 

340 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE    "I"   posited   itself  in   a  realm   somewhat 
nearer  to  the  All.     It  tented  there. 
Miriam    was    there,    profoundly,    deeply,    truly, 
really  there. 

0  death,  where  is  thy  sting?    O  grave,  where  is 
thy  victory? 

1  saw  man — that  I  was,  that  I  had  come  through 
— as  one  turns  and  sees  a  flower,  a  bird! 

I  was  out,  and  about  me  was  a  cloud.  I  could 
not  yet  well  distinguish  where  I  was — I  was  a  babe 
there.  But  under  me  now  was  the  old  kingdom  I 
had  come  through.  A  part  of  me  lived  there  yet,  a 
vast  part — but  a  vaster  part  was  out. 

The  "I"  that  yet  functioned  in  that  kingdom 
was  upon  a  ship  on  the  Mediterranean,  on  the 
JEgean — but  the  "I"  that  was  above  knew  many  a 
ship,  on  many  a  sea,  in  many  an  age !  Walking  the 
sea,  walking  the  land.  .  .  . 

I  came  to  Greece,  to  Athens,  and  found  there 
Maxwell. 

The  heat  burned,  strong  deserts  seemed  to  spring 
about  us — deserts  loved,  wide,  and  clean,  the  super 
fluous  stripped  away.  A  flash,  a  beam  in  the  whole, 
returned  that  day  in  Landon  when  he  stood,  sinewy, 
tanned,  beside  his  shelves  of  ores  and  we  first  grew 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

acquainted  ...  or  thought  then  that  we  first  grew 
acquainted.  Other  beams  fell  from  those  African 
days.  Ten  years  and  more  had  passed  since  we  had 
met  in  the  body  like  this.  Each  had  traveled  far. 
But  where  we  were  now,  as  where  then  we  had  been, 
we  found  ourselves  acquainted,  and  acquaintable, 
able  to  take  the  same  stride,  to  work  together, 
liking  each  other  well  in  those  great,  quiet,  desert 
spaces  filled  with  dry  light. 

...  But  that  first  night  in  Athens  it  was  Miriam 
with  me,  Miriam  and  my  mother  and  Madam  Black 
and  the  man  with  the  book  of  verse. 

I  say  "the  first,"  but  "firstness"  applies  only  to 
that  projection  of  me  named  Michael  Forth,  and 
to  those  named  projections  of  the  others.  There 
was  not  any  firstness  in  the  case  of  I  myself — of 
we  ourselves.  We  had  seen  Athens  built.  As  Athens 
lasted,  so  lasted  our  presence  there. 

Maxwell  and  I  went  up  and  down  in  Hellas.  We 
saw  the  old  sights  again,  the  temples,  hills,  and 
seas. 

There  was  a  place  where  we  sat  among  blocks  of 
man-wrought  stone,  by  the  pillars  of  a  little,  roofless 
fane.  Honey-hued,  the  shafts  rose  behind  us ;  around 
grew  a  scant,  parched  herbage,  before  us  poised  the 
still  blue  sea,  and  the  profound  sky  held  a  cloud 
like  Argo  and  a  cloud  like  the  Golden  Fleece. 

We  had  been  talking  of  Africa,  of  Mannheim, 
Ferraro,  and  Sir  Charles,  but  finally  we  fell  silent 
and  sat  so  for  some  time,  the  moving  sapphire  filling 
the  world.  Maxwell  broke  the  stillness.  "Early  in 
April  an  errand  took  me  up  the  Jamuna.  Just  as 
I  landed  from  a  small  boat  at  a  certain  place,  sud- 

342 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

denly — like  that! — distinctly,  vividly,  consciously,  I 
was  at  sea,  upon  a  steamer  called  the  Zeus,  with 
you  and  with  Miriam.  She  was  no  more  strange  to 
me  than  were  you.  Effectively,  we  were  all  one !  I 
was  there  simply  because  you  were  there." 

"Yes.  You  were  climbing  an  old  river-stair  with 
a  temple  above.  You  stood  still  when  you  felt  the 
ship  about  you.  You  had  with  you  an  English  officer 
and  a  Hindu." 

"Thorncliffe  and  Sastriar." 

"We  were  effectively  one.  I  was  there  simply 
because  you  were  there!" 

He  drew  a  long  breath.  "Well!  Follow  a  clue 
like  that,  and  one  might  come  out  of  the  labyrinth. 
...  I  feel  like  Franklin  with  his  key  and  his  kite 
• — and  overhead  all  that  was  to  come  to  be  meant  by 
'electric!'  .  .  .  Michael,  where  are  we  going?" 

"Into  beyond-man.  What  we  call  heaven  and 
God." 

"All  of  us?" 

"Surely!  Some  particles  are  ahead,  some  in  the 
rear.  It  is  true  that  some  are  almighty  slow !  There 
are  plenty  of  stragglers.  But  they  won't  always 
straggle.  All  are  going — Self-drawn.  And  with 
each  day  the  momentum  increases." 

"I  think  it  does.  But  look  at  the  present  world!" 
he  said. 

We  were  lying  by  the  temple,  above  the  sea.  That 
which  happened  was  that  forthwith  we  looked.  We 
looked  at  ourself  as  Man.  And  we  were  the  Hotten 
tot  in  the  Bush,  and  we  were  what  seers  there  have 
been  and  are.  We  were  our  neighbors  whom  we 
loved,  and  we  were  our  neighbors  with  whom  we 

343 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

were  at  war.  We  cheated  ourself ,  sold  ourself  and 
redeemed  ourself.  We  slew  ourself,  and  we  rose 
from  battle-fields,  grew  bodies  again,  and  slew  our 
self  again.  We  put  out  our  own  lights,  and  then 
with  long  pain  relumed  them.  With  pangs  and  pangs 
again  we  gave  birth  to  ourself,  and  all  the  while 
feverishly  we  dug  graves  for  ourself  that  we  had 
birthed.  We  said,  "You  die — ha,  ha!  You  go 
under — ha,  ha!"  and  we  died  and  went  under,  and 
still  we  stayed  not  there.  We  were  a  welter,  a  brew 
in  a  caldron,  a  chaos — 

Maxwell's  voice  came  as  from  out  a  darkness. 
"So  at  times  I  see  it— " 

"I  see  also.  .  .  .  There  is  truth  in  it,  but  it  is  too 
short  range.  Look  now!" 

Out  of  chaos  was  coming  cosmos.  Men  were  be 
coming  Man — christs  becoming  Christ — gods  be 
coming  God.  Perpetually  we  learned.  We  lost 
ignorance,  but  did  not  lose  wisdom;  lost  discord,  but 
did  not  lose  harmony;  lost  hatred,  but  did  not  lose 
love;  lost  weakness,  but  did  not  lose  might.  Despite 
all  dull,  distracted,  hypnotized  clutching  at  the  one 
it  fell  from  us.  The  other  stayed.  And  that  which 
went  was  of  time,  and  that  which  stayed  was 
timeless. 

We  returned  to  the  self  by  the  temple. 

"Bitter-sweet — sad  and  bright!"  he  said.  "I  pin 
by  courage." 

"Courage  and  good-will.  .  .  .  Love  is  power." 

We  sat  silent,  sat  so  for  long.  Gradually  our 
minds  again  united.  The  intellect  grew  larger, 
keener,  the  feeling  at  once  vivid  and  extended. 
Thought,  emotion,  sensation  were  toward  lands  and 

344 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

peoples.  We  felt  them,  felt  Greece  and  England  and 
America,  felt  France,  Germany,  Spain,  Italy,  felt 
China  and  Japan  and  India,  and  all  the  others — 
felt  them  as  complexes  in  the  One  Man — as  we  felt 
the  sexes  in  the  One — as  we  felt  in  the  One  the 
children,  the  young,  renewing  points,  and  the  prime, 
and  the  fading  before  transformation  that  they  call 
age.  There  was  a  mighty  integration — and  we  felt 
the  upstanding  god. 

We  sank  back,  always  still  we  sank  back.  "  We 
could  not  hold  the  chord,  keep  the  form!  Disinte 
gration — but  continually  the  muscles  grew  stronger 
to  draw  all  together  again! 

Maxwell  sighed  and  moved.  "Nomads,  Bedouins, 
wandering  in  the  desert  and  lifting  eyes  to  the  city 
of  God." 

"It  is  there — the  truer  self!  We  dwelt  there  a 
moment." 

"A  moment  of  a  moment." 

"It  was  an  earnest.  When  we  can  dwell  there  an 
hour,  how  much,  O  Miriam,  shall  we  know  and  be!" 

"Vast,  lifted,  simple—" 

"Blissful,  intimate.  ...  All  the  beautiful  old 
words,  all  myths  have  meant  it. ...  Gather  the  mem 
bers  of  Osiris.  .  .  .  Feel  as  a  tree  and  find  it  as  simple, 
one,  natural,  as  feeling  as  a  leaf.  Feel  as  the  Ash 
Yggdrasil." 

Again  one  day  we  sailed  to  an  island  and  sat 
among  rocks  where  some  sweet-scented  low  shrub 
sent  out  an  odor  combining  exquisitely  with  that 
of  the  sea.  "I  suppose,"  said  Maxwell,  "that  there 
is  everywhere  emerging  a  higher  range  of  faculties. 
The  type  of  consciousness  changes,  advances.  I 

345 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

meet  of  late  years  all  kinds  of  explorers,  each  with 
a  different  tale  to  tell,  but  all  telling  of  the  new 
continent.  .  .  .  What  we  begin  to  be  able  to  do  falls 
under  so  many  heads.  The  past  now — all  our  his 
tory!  It  is  profoundly  with  me  in  a  kind  of  brood 
ing  regard/* 

"You  may  walk  in  the  past — observe  it — and 
alter  it  as  a  garden.'* 

"You  say  ' alter.'  I  believe  that  too.  The  past 
can  be  altered." 

'  *  Yes.    You  have  abundant  power  of  motion  in  it. " 

A  bird  passed  us,  high  in  air.  A  wind  came,  bend 
ing  the  grass.  "You  know  that  I  loved,"  he  said, 
"a  woman  who  is  dead.  It  is  growing  that  she  and 
I  walk  hand  in  hand." 

"That  old  blank  wall  is  crumbling  so  that  you 
can  see  the  sun  through  it.  Who  that  is  dead  has 
vanished?  We  shall  gather  all  the  living  and  we 
shall  gather  all  the  dead!" 

He  sat  with  his  eyes  upon  the  burning  blue  of 
that  Greek  sky.  For  me,  I  was  in  that  country,  but 
also  Miriam  and  I  climbed  Wake-robin  Hill.  "An 
other  thing  develops  in  me,"  said  Maxwell.  "I 
begin  to  integrate  waking  life  and  sleeping." 

"Yes.  It  is  to  be  done.  All  manner  of  integra 
tions.  .  .  ." 

We  mounted  a  long  slope  of  brown  light.  Atop, 
we  stood  under  a  pine-tree,  we  looked  afar.  "Do 
you  think  that  you  ever  began  to  live?" 

"I  do  not.    I  never  began  and  I  shall  never  end." 

"Oh,  the  mystery—!" 

"Is  it  so  mysterious?  Standing  there,  you  say 
'I.'  Standing  here,  I  say  'I.'  It  is  the  same  word. 

346 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

I  take  it  that  the  quest,  the  searched-for  treasure,  the 
Grail  of  all  the  ages,  is  for  every  'I'  to  find  'I' 
wherever  it  is,  and  that  is  everywhere.  All  'I'  is 
I.  I  AM  THAT  I  AM.  Each  one  is  to  find  that  all  the 
Ts'  go  into  One  Word.  The  first  and  only  Word 
—  the  Word  of  God.  .  .  .  God,  self-conscious,  saying 

<T    >  » 

"I  see,"  he  said.  We  faced  each  other,  eyes  meet 
ing.  "  '  /,'  "  he  said.  "I  say  it  of  what  I  have  called 
'you.?' 

I  answered.     "I.    I  say  it  of  what  I  have  called 


Going  Athens-ward  that  day,  all  Greece  sprang 
whole  again.  Not  one  age  of  it,  but  all  ages  of  it, 
and  the  nimbus  around  its  head  that  was  the  future. 
.  .  .  All  earth  sprang  whole  and  had  its  nimbus. 

Maxwell  and  I  journeyed  for  a  month.  Each 
liking,  each  understanding  has  its  own  fragrance, 
characteristic  tone,  strength.  Maxwell  and  I  joined 
fast  in  strong  intellectual  spaces,  and  in  common 
care  for  a  clean,  taut,  athletic  physical,  and  in  a 
heart  that  loved  wild  and  careless  beauty. 

At  the  end  of  this  time  I  must  go  home  to  Vir 
ginia,  to  Flowerfield.  He,  who  had  been  engineering 
in  the  East,  was  now  on  his  way  to  England,  where 
a  new  project  awaited  him.  We  traveled  together 
to  Italy  and  northward  to  Genoa  where  I  could 
get  my  boat.  Arriving  in  Rome,  we  spent  there  a 
week. 

All  countries  were  now  homes  —  all  cities  my  cities 
—  all  peoples  myself.  .  .  .  Over  and  over  again  the 
integrating  energy  slackened,  weakened  —  there  was 
instantaneous  descent  just  to  Michael  Forth.  Over 

347 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

and  over  again !  But  there  were  times  when  the  deep 
past  and  the  wide  present  seemed  to  stand  in  one 
form  in  some  tremendous  light  and  warmth  that 
were  the  future.  .  .  .  And  all  the  myriad  shades, 
degrees,  varieties,  so  rich  each  one,  of  experience! 

Once  here,  walking  at  night,  I  was  suddenly  at 
one  with  an  alchemist  who  had  lived  I  know  not 
when. 

Another  time  I  knew  that  I,  and  Miriam  with  me, 
and,  I  thought,  my  mother,  had  been  martyred  here 
in  Rome  nearly  two  thousand  years  ago.  ...  I  looked 
from  a  cross,  and  I  saw  over  a  space  of  sand,  lifted 
and  pierced  in  the  same  way,  Gamaliel. 

The  monk  Eadwine  connected  here.  .  .  . 

Countless  multitudes  of  lives  that  are  our  moments, 
phases!  .  .  .  Stand  in  One  Life  and  see  from  the 
center  thy  universe!  "Michael  Forth"  was  now  to 
me  one  of  the  moments,  the  phases. 

Maxwell  and  I  left  Rome  and  came  to  Genoa, 
where  I  was  to  take  ship.  Our  inn  had  been  a  palace ; 
we  sat  that  night,  with  candles  burning,  in  a  room 
so  large  that  the  verges  were  lost  in  shadow.  We 
sat  silent.  In  at  window  came  the  ringing  of  a  dis 
tant  bell,  sweet  and  slow.  We  were  going  to  part 
on  the  morrow,  who  liked  each  other  well. 

To  my  perception  time  changed,  space  changed. 
Many  more  causes  were  simultaneously  seen;  many 
more  effects.  Miriam  and  I  did  not  part,  and  Max 
well  and  I  did  not  part.  The  larger  life  is  here  and 
now.  Heaven  is  here  and  now. 

He  said:  "There  came  then  a  wave  of  truth. 
From  what  land  do  they  blow,  these  things?  .  .  . 
At  any  rate,  you  and  I  do  not  part." 

348 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

The  next  evening  the  sea  ran  in  vast  blues  and 
purples  about  the  ship.  The  Italian  shore  was 
sinking;  the  mind's  eye  saw  Africa  and  Spain  and 
the  Strait,  the  Atlantic  and  America.  .  .  .  There  held 
me  an  emotion  delicate  and  powerful,  fragrant  as 
the  wild  grape,  all  melody  and  color  and  zest,  and 
above  it  walked  unhidden  intelligence.  And  Miriam 
and  I  met  in  the  whole. 


349 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

IN  New  York,  Conrad,  who  lived  in  the  next  street, 
came  to  see  me  almost  at  once.  We  walked  up  and 
down  in  the  study  that  was  a  long,  high-ceilinged 
room.  He  looked  about  him.  "I  don't  think  she 
has  gone,"  he  said. 

"No.    She's  not  gone." 

We  walked  up  and  down,  Miriam  with  us.  "You 
were  already  profoundly  one,"  he  said. 

The  city  roared  without  the  windows,  the  great 
city.  Now  it  was  Blake's  tiger,  tiger  burning  bright, 
and  now  Blake's  lion  with  ruby  eyes  and  mane  of 
gold,  now  half  man  and  half  brute — centaur — and 
now  whole  man,  and  now  half  man,  half  god. 

In  very  ancient  times  what  long  effort — prolonged, 
broken — to  stand  upright,  to  use  the  hand,  the 
tongue!  And  now,  upon  the  huge,  next  stair,  diffi 
cult,  too — ! 

We  talked  of  Conrad's  especial  work.  He  also 
had  grown  in  these  years,  was  stiller,  more  patient, 
massive,  than  he  had  been. 

Around  him  beat  difficulties  of  a  disturbed  hive, 
clouds  of  stinging  bees.  He  could  say,  "I  sting,  I 
fret  and  hamper  myself" — and  work  on  toward 
better  things.  He,  with  all  of  us,  was  on  the  way  to 
knowledge  and  the  master  reconciliation.  The  long 
road — oh,  the  long.,  long  road! — oh,  the  only  road 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

worth  traveling!  He  was  like  and  not  like  the  old 
Conrad  of  the  university,  or  the  Conrad  even  of 
ten  years  ago.  He  worked  hard,  with  vision  and 
with  temperance,  building  not  with  gusty  strokes, 
but  to  last.  The  gain  in  him  was  that  there  used  to 
be  the  gusty  strokes.  The  emotion  of  the  Whole, 
the  fusing  passion,  held  him  now  so  closely  that  he 
grew  steadfast. 

His  old  paper  The  Compass  continued,  and  he  was 
starting  a  journal  named  The  Evolutionist.  I  said 
that  Evolutionist-Involutionist  was  the  better,  if 
longer  word — unless,  serving  a  turn  already  made, 
he  was  ready  plainly  to  say  Involutionist. 

"It  is  too  revolutionary  a  title — yet!  As  I  see  the 
formula,  it  goes:  X — Evolution — Pause — Turn — 
Involution — X. ' ' 

"X  is  the  equilibrium,  the  identity,  the  Eternal 
Person." 

"I  suppose  that  is  so."  He  put  his  hands  behind 
his  head  and  leaned  back,  his  eyes  upon  the  rows 
of  books.  "None  does  anything  else  but  build  at, 
build  into  the  Greater  Person.  .  .  .  'All  men  are 
different,'  said  yesterday.  'All  men  are  equal,'  says 
a  part  of  to-day.  'All  men  are  identical,'  will  say 
to-morrow.  .  .  .  Each  man  and  woman,  consciously 
or  unconsciously,  lover  and  servant  of  that  great 
Art  that  makes  us  One!  All  are  pilgrims,  seekers, 
workers  in  that  studio.  .  .  .  But  one  reaches  Bewlah 
Land,  while  another  is  still  at  Hill  Difficulty." 

His  hands  came  down  upon  the  table.  I  put 
mine  over  them.  "All  right,  brother — " 

We  talked  late.  When  he  went  away  Cygnus 
was  over  the  house-tops.  As  I  fell  to  sleep  a  great 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

star  shone  in  the  inner  world — and  it  had  mind  and 
feeling  and  power  and  beauty! 

I  had  found  that  Gamaliel  was  away  from  the 
city.  But  the  day  after  Conrad  he  came.  It  was 
a  day  of  autumnal  beating  rain  and  a  wind  that  cried 
in  the  chimney  and  at  the  window.  Martin  had  built 
me  a  fire  in  the  study.  There  was  work  to  do  before 
I  could  go  to  Flowerfield.  I  had  worked  almost  all 
the  day,  but  in  the  rainy,  late  afternoon  came 
Gamaliel. 

I  had  always  loved  him  and  I  did  so  now  and 
should  do  so  to-morrow  and  all  the  days  after. 
Maxwell  was  comrade  of  manhood.  Gamaliel  was 
that,  too,  but  comrade  besides  of  boyhood.  This 
afternoon  it  was  boyhood  that  came  all  around  us. 
And  he  knew  what  it  was  to  suffer  and  to  struggle, 
and  far  ages  of  that  of  my  own  had  been  in  this 
room  to-day.  He  knew — he  was — Whitechurch  and 
Baltimore,  Restwell,  Flowerfield.  We  could  walk 
together  in  the  still,  the  living,  land  of  the  past. 
How  far  we  could  walk  together  we  had  never 
plumbed,  but  we  knew  that  it  was  very  far — it  was 
very  far — and  in  the  present  and  in  the  future  as 
well  as  the  past.  I  understood  the  world  Gamaliel, 
and  he  the  world  Michael.  There  was  free  trade 
between  us.  The  two  capitals  were  homes  each  to 
the  other;  the  two  banners  had  a  common,  splendid 
over-banner.  There  was  variousness,  for  richness, 
for  refreshment.  But  in  and  through  and  with  the 
variousness  ran  the  common  passion  for  the  All. 
That  Beatrix— that  Mary— tore  none  apart,  made 
none  jealous.  .  .  . 

Gamaliel  and  I  cohered,  interpenetrated,  tasted 

352 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

each  other  and  liked  the  taste.  We  sat  beside  the 
fire,  with  the  rain  streaming,  beating,  against  the 
pane.  "I  came  from  Whitechurch  last  night.  My 
father  is  dead.0 

"I  did  not  know  that!    Tell  me—" 

"It  was  a  short  illness.  He  had  changed  in  this 
last  year,  Michael.  Walls  were  beginning  to  come 
down.  ...  I  did  not  mean  to  leave  him,  nor  to  be 
left  by  him.  .  .  .  He  lay,  clear-headed  and  still,  at  the 
last.  His  small,  bare  room  and  he  lying  there, 
straight  and  gray.  ...  I  watched — and  the  stillest 
kind  of  night  outside — and  picture  after  picture 
coming  up.  Do  you  remember  the  night  we  saw 
*  Midsummer  Night's  Dream'?  That  came  up.  How 
hardly  I  thought  that  night  of  all  fathers!  Old 
^Dgeus  who  would  kill  his  daughter  if  she  went  not 
his  way — and  my  father  who  would  hold  me  with 
both  hands  to  be  still  the  same.  ...  I  watched,  and 
at  last  the  cocks  crew.  He  turned  his  head  and 
opened  his  eyes.  He  said,  'Gamaliel,  if  you  conquer — ' 

"I  answered  that  I  didn't  want  to  conquer.  Not 
now.  Not  unless  in  some  way  we  both  conquered 
...  by  loving — by  knowing. 

"Do  you  know,  Michael,  what  happened?  I  held 
his  hand.  .  .  .  And  we  were  one ! ...  All  his  memories 
were  mine.  ...  I  felt  his  hand  gather  my  hand.  He 
said,  'Gamaliel — but  that  is  my  name,  too!'  .  .  . 
It  was  as  though  a  hand  passed  over  his  face  and 
wiped  out  severity  and  put  there  knowledge.  'Life,' 
he  said.  'Life  everlasting!'  And  he  drew  my  hand 
up  to  his  heart  .  .  .  and  under  it  the  heart  stopped. 
But  then  I  felt  it  beat  in  me." 

"Just  so." 

353 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

He  rose  and  walked  the  room,  then  came  back  to 
the  hearth.  The  fire  reddened  all  the  place,  and  his 
tall  form  and  lined  and  intellectual  face.  As  the 
flame  played  it  seemed  to  do  away  with  all  rigidity 
in  that  appearance.  It  seemed  to  change,  to  be 
come,  dissolve,  re-become — and  now  it  carried  with 
it  this  environment  and  now  that.  I  thought  I 
saw  great  Proteus  who  could  change  from  form  to 
form,  from  face  to  face,  because  all  were  his.  .  .  . 
Gamaliel  spoke,  "And  we  shall  revive  our  dead." 

We  sat  together  through  the  closing  day.  Now 
vve  talked  and  now  we  sat  in  a  silence  of  under 
standing,  rest  in  company.  He  supped  with  me, 
and  we  came  back  to  the  study  and  built  up  the  fire 
and  talked  of  work,  his  work,  and  mine,  and 
Miriam's. 

So  stormy  was  the  night  that  he  agreed  to  stay 
with  me.  It  was  eleven  when  a  cab  stopped  before 
the  house  and  we  heard  Mrs.  Lobb's  key  in  the  door. 
"She  still  plays?" 

"She  has  a  small  part  in  'Out  and  Away." 

"Just  as  Wythe,  the  engraver,  still  engraves  where 
he  can  get  work — and  both  would  be  sadder,  very 
wistful,  if  they  thought  they  could  not  die  in  this 
house!  They  can?" 

"Yes.  Kate  and  Dugald  and  I  shall  live  here, 
too,  in  the  winter.  And  Mary  and  Martin  and 
Norah  and  Dacia.  And  Miriam.19 

Mrs.  Lobb  tapped  at  the  study  door.  It  was  her 
habit,  coming  in  so,  when  she  saw  that  the  room 
was  yet  lighted.  I  opened  the  door  for  her.  She 
entered,  wrapped  in  her  long,  warm  cloak,  and  with 
the  rouge  yet  faintly  on  her  cheeks. 

354 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

When  she  had  greeted  Gamaliel,  whom  she  liked, 
she  sighed  with  pleasure  over  the  fire.  "The  theater 
was  cold — and  all  the  winds  of  heaven  are  in  the 
streets!  But  I  played  my  old  Madame  part  well 
— ah,  well!"  She  sat  and  warmed  herself  by  the  fire, 
and  she,  too,  looked  magic,  many  in  one,  to-night. 
"The  passion  for  the  ideal!"  she  said.  "One  only 
finds  the  real  by  that!  Ideal  passion.  I  did  well, 
and  I  felt  as  young  as  I  shall  be  when  I  die.  .  .  . 
For  we  go  toward  youth,  I  am  perfectly  sure  of  that !" 

Warmed,  she  said  good-night,  and  left  us.  There 
was  magic  about  her  and  about  everything  to-night 
— or  not  magic,  but  a  true  and  powerful  light. 

Gamaliel  and  I  sat  still  until  the  wood  should  burn 
away.  Pictures  wrapped  us.  ... 

The  next  day  came  to  see  me  Royal  Warringer. 
His  secretary  telephoned,  asking  if  I  were  at  home. 
He  came  in  a  high,  clear,  sunny  day,  the  storm  gone 
by,  the  streets  glistening,  the  air  free  and  thrilling. 
I  met  him  down-stairs,  in  the  parlor  that  with  love 
and  care  Miriam  and  I  had  made  right.  But  he 
said  at  once:  "Haven't  you  a  study?  Let  us  go 
there." 

In  the  study,  when  he  had  swept  it  with  his  eye, 
he  went  at  once  to  the  small  painting  of  her  that 

Y had  made  and  given  us.  He  said,  "She  was 

more  lovely,  Michael,  than  I  thought." 

We  stood  before  the  painting.  It  showed  her  very 
simply,  sitting  in  a  flush  of  marvelously  painted 
dawn.  "It  is  sunset  light?"  he  said.  "No.  I  see.  It 
is  dawn  light." 

"Yes.     Dawn  light." 

We  sat  down,  and  he  began  to  talk  of  Rest  well. 
355 


MICHAEL   FORTH 

How  may  any  part  of  spirit  change  and  not  all 
change?  As  I  moved  he  moved — as  I  heard  the 
oceans  he  heard  them — or  as  he  heard  the  oceans  I 
heard  them — it  matters  not  which.  He  had  great 
power  and  subtlety.  ...  I  found  in  him  what  I  had 
not  found  before — what  I  had  not  been  strong 
enough  to  find  before  —  I  found  in  him,  in  remote, 
half-tended  gardens,  small  flowers  of  love.  We 
opened  one  toward  the  other.  .  .  . 

He  stayed  the  better  part  of  an  hour  and  then 
went  who,  like  all  persons  else,  yet  stayed.  An 
aspect  of  him  went,  but  aspects  remained.  .  .  .  Some 
thing  powerful  over  us  was  correcting  the  one  of  us 
by  the  other — gathering  from  each  the  desirable,  the 
useful,  regarding  the  leaden  portion  of  each,  lifting 
the  leaden  portion  of  each  toward  the  crucible.  ... 
We  were  coming  together  up  higher. 

Michael,  Royal,  Miriam,  and  Dorothea — 


356 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THREE  days  and  I  was  in  Virginia.  The  train 
ran  through  October  lands  to  October  hills  and 
mountains.  I  loved  them,  loved  Virginia,  loved  the 
Indian-summer  day.  The  South  was  mine — as  was 
New  England,  the  West  and  the  Middle  West — as  was 
America  to  the  south,  and  the  northern  Dominion, 
and  the  Indies.  And  Europe  was  mine,  and  Africa, 
Asia,  and  all  the  islands  of  the  seas.  And  the  sub 
merged  continents  and  the  continents  to  be.  Owned 
without  harm  as  all  may  own  all.  .  .  . 

The  train  rushed  on.  That  emotion  that  is  above 
cry  or  laughter  and  that  thought  that  is  above 
words  held  me.  .  .  . 

Here  was  the  county  town,  here  were  greetings. 
At  the  last  I  had  come  a  day  or  two  earlier  than  was 
thought  for.  None  from  home  was  at  the  station. 
I  walked  to  Flowerfield. 

There  lay  a  hilltop  on  the  way  where,  walking 
or  riding  or  driving,  or  on  the  returning  wings  of 
thought,  every  lover  of  beauty  made  pause  and 
feasted.  Beside  the  way  rested  a  wide  boulder — 
how  often  and  how  often  had  we  who  were  walkers 
rested  there  with  it!  I  rested  there  to-day. 

A  farm-wagon  went  by  and  the  man  in  it  and  I 
called  greeting.  A  negro  carrying  a  bag  of  meal 

357 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

came  by  and  we  greeted;  three  boys  and  a  dog  fol 
lowed  and  we  greeted.  Then  came  a  surrey  and 
women  driving  and  we  greeted — then  an  old  colored 
woman  hobbling  along  with  a  stick  and  we  greeted. 
Then  for  a  space  the  road  ran  bare;  just  the  October 
wind  blowing  red  and  gold  leaves  across  and  along. 
Around  flowed  the  widest  landscape. 

I  saw.  I  saw  my  country,  earth,  times,  desires 
and  passions  and  determinations,  the  bound  spirit 
and  the  spirit  heaving  against  its  bonds,  and  the 
spirit  partly  free,  and  high  above  the  bound  I  felt 
the  spirit  free!  One  spirit — as  we  say  "one  man  and 
his  freedoms  and  unfreedoms." 

The  wind  blew  down  the  leaves.  A  great  ray  of 
sun  traveled  like  a  search-light.  Again  negroes  were 
passing,  this  time  a  number  together,  and  the  one 
ahead  sang,  "Roll,  Jordan  Roll!"  We  greeted.  I 
rose  from  the  boulder  and  went  on  to  Flowerfield. 

Kate  and  Dugald  were  making  a  canal  and  tow- 
path  down  by  the  streamlet  under  the  willows.  I 
heard  their  caroling  talk  and  went  that  way.  They 
flung  themselves  upon  me.  .  .  . 

We  sat  under  the  willows  and  talked  of  her  whom 
they  called  "mother" — who  was  profoundly  mother, 
as  she  was  also  child — mother  and  child  and  lover 
and  self  of  all!  They  were  so  young — they  felt 
her  everywhere.  We  talked — then  we  finished  and 
smoothed  the  tow-path  and  planted  witch-hazel 
twigs  for  fairy  trees  to  shade  the  elf  drawers  of  an 
elf  boat.  Then  we  washed  our  hands  in  the  stream 
and  went  up  to  the  house. 

Oh,  Flowerfield! 

John  and  Amy,  Aunt  Kate  and  Uncle  John, 

358 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

Catherine,  Lewis — dear  lands  of  being!  The  house 
sang  its  old  ballad,  the  splendid  trees  burned  like 
the  phenix,  seeing  winter,  divining  the  recurrent 
spring.  .  .  . 

When  a  week  had  passed  I  went  for  a  week  to 
Restwell. 

Nor  Dorothea  nor  Carter  nor  Royal  were  there. 
I  had  all  kindness  from  Aunt  Harriet  and  General 
Warringer.  Aunt  Sarah  and  I  walked  or  sat,  talked 
or  were  silent  together. 

Her  hair  was  now  gray,  but  her  eyes  held  their 
still  glow,  her  face  was  unwrinkled,  her  figure  kept 
its  grace,  her  step  lightness.  We  went  here,  we  went 
there,  about  the  old  place;  we  sat  by  the  river  or 
under  the  orchard  trees.  But  oftenest  we  went  to 
the  graveyard.  Still  she  brought  the  flowers  there. 
We  felt  the  ancient  sweet  presences,  and  other  days 
and  days  came  now  into  the  garland.  She  met 
herself  as  a  young  woman  there.  Over  the  wall 
I  heard  Ahasuerus  calling,  and  he  and  I,  boys, 
rampaged  in  the  sloping,  fairy  wood.  Or,  back  this 
side  the  wall,  I  moved  where  my  mother  moved.  .  .  . 
Under  the  apple-tree,  in  the  far  corner,  the  red  ap 
ples  lay  on  the  ground.  .  .  .  Oh,  miracle,  marvel — 
magical  life! 

My  aunt  Sarah  spoke:  "Ten  years  or  so  ago,  I 
entered  a  new  world.  Perhaps  imagination  and 
memory  and  intuition  and  mind  and  emotion  and 
judgment  were  always  on  the  road.  .  .  .  Perhaps  we 
come,  each  of  us,  like  Christian,  to  a  boundary- 
line,  and  there  the  burden  drops  and  we  walk  on, 
new  man,  new  woman !  At  any  rate,  I  walk  on,  and 
now  each  morning  I  say,  'What  exquisite,  sweet 

359 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

surprise  shall  I  know  to-day?'  Behind  all  outer 
meanings  are  inner  meanings,  and  they  come  first, 
come  last — are  Alpha  and  Omega  into  which  all 
things  go,  out  of  which  all  things  come!" 

The  days  slipped  by  at  Restwell.  I  walked  to 
Whitechurch.  Hilltop  Academy  had  another  prin 
cipal,  Mr.  Smith,  the  history  teacher,  teaching  where 
had  taught  Doctor  Young.  I  went  to  see  Mr.  Gil 
bert.  The  great  tree  shadowed  the  pharmacy.  One 
descended  a  step  as  into  the  cave  of  a  good  anchorite. 
The  little  bell  rang. 

The  hermit  was  now  an  old  man.  "Oh  yes,  I  shall 
bury  this!"  he  said.  "But  I  shall  simply  live  on. 
Immortality  is  desirable.  I  take  it  that  the  school- 
books  and  the  newspapers  haven't  yet  the  last  word 
in  physics  and  mathematics.*' 

I  went  to  see  the  rector  of  St.  Matthew's.  Mr. 
Millwood  was  in  his  study,  but  presently  we  stepped 
into  the  garden  and  paced  the  path  by  white  and 
pink  and  purple  asters.  He  spoke  of  Miriam. 

I  said:  "Death  is  a  plane  of  consciousness.  By 
degrees  the  'living'  and  the  'dead'  are  finding  and 
making  a  plane  in  which  to  meet.  When  the  con 
sciousness  has  grown  great  wings — " 

"Yes?" 

"Then  there  is  no  'death/" 

"Consciousness — planes  and  states — degrees  of 
awareness!  I  hate,"  said  Mr.  Millwood,  with  vigor, 
"all  the  new-fangled  lingo!" 

I  laughed.  I  agreed  that  language  was  yet 
Boeotian. 

But  the  sunshine  was  not  Boeotian — nor  the  colors 
of  the  garden.  The  three-dimensional  language  was 

360 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

not  Boeotian.  ...  Or  was  it,  too,  Boeotian  to  what 
should  be,  would  be? 

We  walked  the  brick  path.  .  .  . 

That  evening  at  Restwell  I  went  to  Daddy 
Guinea's  cabin.  It  stood  vacant,  the  door  open, 
behind  it  cavernous  dark,  before  it  red  sumach  and 
farewell-summer.  I  sat  upon  the  door-step  and  all 
my  childhood  came  about  me. 

I  had  learned  to  walk  in  the  past  as  simply  as 
one  turns  from  the  thronged  street  to  walk  in  the 
park.  I  walked  there  now.  Fire  burned  on  the 
cabin  hearth  and  there  Daddy  Guinea  and  I  baked 
sweet  potatoes  and  he  told  me  about  the  battle 
seen  from  Lone  Tree  Hill.  But  I  asked  him  ques 
tions  such  as  I  had  not  asked  then,  and  I  saw  in 
his  answers  what  I  had  not  seen  then — and  yet  was 
it  play,  recreation !  The  past  is  the  vast  playground 
where  things  are  learned  in  play.  There  is  motion 
there  as  everywhere. 

The  past  ran  into  the  now,  the  now  rose  from  the 
past.  Spread  in  all  directions  the  tremendous  shape 
of  the  present!  Flux  and  throb  and  impact,  shud 
dering  thrill  and  thunder — mine  of  choices.  .  .  . 

The  future  lifted  me.  .  .  .  Those  who  live  in  the 
future  live! 

Chaplets  of  stars  appeared.  The  night  wind 
breathed.  "Tu-whoo!  Tu-whoo!"  said  an  owl  in 
the  wood.  The  cricket  world  chirped.  The  soil, 
the  plant  world,  entered  in  fragrance.  .  .  .  Oh,  beauty 
and  might  and  wisdom!  AUM,  saith  the  Hindu. 
ALL — ALL. 

We  are  Brahma,  we  are  Vishnu,  we  are  Shiva — 
Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

361 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

I  looked  at  my  little  life,  and  I  looked  at  my 
larger  life,  and  I  saw  that  the  one  was  to  melt  into 
the  other. 

The  larger  was  to  be  the  simple,  continuing, 
every-day  life — as  the  little  life  had  been.  The 
momentary  was  to  become  the  day  long.  ...  I  felt 
movement  about  me — presences — Presence.  I  could 
not  bring  all  into  radiance — I  could  not  step  wholly, 
bodily,  into  that  super-world  that  I  divined — outer 
islands,  I  divined,  of  an  inner  world  so  great,  so 
bright — !  Ignorance  held  me,  lethargy,  weakness, 
unwisdom,  unlove.  I  saw  through  a  glass  darkly, 
but  all  my  being  was  bent  toward  one  day  seeing 
clearly.  We  pass  into  it  as,  long  ago,  we  passed 
through  the  brute  into  the  human.  All  the  world 
shall  go  up  with  a  shout  into  God — shall  find  itself 
in  its  own  heights. 

I  left  the  cabin  and  went  down  to  the  river  and 
heard  the  sea  talking  in  it,  to  it.  I  touched  the 
sea  that  had  put  it  forth  and  was  taking  it  again. 
It  was  no  distance,  or  I  had  overpassed  distance. 
All  experience  had  been,  was,  and  would  be  mine 
.  .  .  and  thine  .  .  .  ours  .  .  .  the  ultimate,  the 
un-selfed  I. 

In  a  week  I  went  from  Restwell  back  to  Flower- 
field. 

Indian  summer  pervaded  the  land.  In  the  spring 
violets  cover  the  ground,  in  the  late,  late  autumn 
they  fill  the  air. 

John  and  I  walked  the  old  road.  "Show  me, 
Michael,  some  of  the  things  you  see!" 

"I  see  how  good,  how  strong,  how  dear  you  are, 
John,  John!" 

362 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

"But  you've  stepped  over  a  stream  that  still  runs 
before  me.  I  can  see  that.  You  call  to  me  from  the 
other  side." 

"You  will  come.  You  feel  yourself  moving.  .  .  . 
'It's  dogged  does  it.'  'Dogged'  finds  the  direction 
— '  dogged '  pursues  it.  '  Dogged '  is  your  true  knight 
errant,  his  adventure  found — " 

"But  the  mood,"  he  said,  "ceases  to  be  one  of 
doggedness." 

"You  are  right.    It  becomes  a  burning  glory." 

We  walked  in  silence.  He  drew  a  quick  breath. 
"I  saw  just  then,  time,  space,  and  causation." 

"You  are  crossing  the  stream!  This  is  a  world 
beyond  the  old.  We  passed  into  it  because  we  were 
ready  to  pass  into  it.  But  we  are  babes  here,  half- 
blind  new-comers,  stammerers,  uncertain  feelers  tow 
ard  bright  truths.  That  will  change.  We  shall 
grow." 

"The  'I'  sense— where  does  that  go?" 

"It  passes  into  'We'  —  and  that  passes  into 
God."  ' 

We  walked  on,  and  Flowerfield  and  the  County 
and  the  State  and  the  Country  and  the  World  were 
vividly  fair.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  was  a  day  of  rain,  the  day  after  one 
of  blowing  wind,  but  the  third  day  broke  in  glory. 
I  went  that  morning  to  Wake-robin  Hill.  I  passed 
the  lesser  wood  where  in  spring  the  flowers  abounded. 
I  climbed  to  the  crown  and  lay  under  hemlocks. 
Still,  still,  was  I  hunting  Reality,  the  thing  which 
Is  ...  thing?  .  .  .  the  Person  Who  Is! 

Miriam  and  I  sought  together.  She  was  with 
me  on  Wake-robin  Hill. 

363 


MICHAEL    FORTH 

We  sought — and,  as  ever,  seeking,  we  found.  We 
found  wonder,  high  peace,  work  to  be  done,  advent 
ure  mystic,  beckoning,  vistas  of  travel! 

To  hear  the  voice  of  understanding,  and  to  live 
the  unselfish  life — 


THE   END 


